EPISTLE

FROM DOCTOR WINTER TO DOCTOR CHEYNE.

TELL me from whom, fat-headed Scot,

Thou did'st thy system learn ;
From Hippocrate thou had'st it not,
Nor Celsus, nor Pitcairn.

Suppose we own that milk is good,
And say the same of grass;
The one for babes is only food,
The other for an ass.

Doctor, one new prescription try,
A friend's advice forgive;
Eat grass, reduce thyself, and die,
Thy patients then may live.

ANSWER.

My system, Doctor, is my own,
No tutor I pretend;

My blunders hurt myself alone,

But your's your dearest friend.

Were you to milk and straw confin'd,
Thrice happy might you be;
Perhaps you might regain your mind,
And from your wit get free.

1 can't your kind prescription try,
But heartily forgive;

'Tis natural you should bid me die,
That you yourself may live.

VERSES

Written on a retired Cottage built by - Powis, Esq. by the River Severn, in Shropshire.

STAY, passenger, and though within
Nor gold, nor glitt'ring gems are seen,
To strike thy dazzled eye,

Yet enter, and thy ravish'd mind
Beneath this humble roof shall find
What gold will never buy.

Within this solitary cell,

Calm thought and sweet contentment dwell,
Parents of bliss sincere;

Peace spreads around her balmy wings,
And, banish'd from the courts of kings,

Has fix'd her mansion here.

London Magazine.

VERSES

WRITTEN AT AN INN, ON A PARTICULAR OCCASION.

To thee, fair Freedom! I retire

From flattery, feasting, dice, and din; Nor art thou found in domes much higher Than the low cot, or humble Inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champaigne;
For freedom crowns it, at an Inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from state,
I fly from falshood's specious grin:
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And chuse my lodging's, at an Inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom, at an Inn.

And now once more I shape my way,

Through rain or shine, through thick or thin,

Secure to meet at close of day,

With kind reception-at an Inn.

Z

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his various tour has been,
May sigh to think how oft he found

His warmest welcome-at an Inn.

LET there be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever so much elegance, ever so much desire that every one should be easy in a private house, in the nature of things it cannot be: there must always be some degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to entertain his guests; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him: and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command what is in another man's house, as if it were his own. Whereas at a Tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you are welcome; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters-do, who are incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they please. No, Sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good Tavern or Inn.

Dr. Johnson. THE CAPTIVE QUEEN.

WITH radiance rose thy morning sun,
Fair promise of a happy day;
But, luckless ere it reach'd its noon,
The fiend of darkness dimm'd the ray.

What though the brightest gifts are thine,
And distant nations pour thy praise;
While, raptur'd on thy form divine,
The eyes of Love and WONDER gaze?

The voice of Joy, for ever mute,

Must yield to sighs that mourn in vain;
And PITY come with sweetest lute,
To sooth thy sorrows with her strain.

The syren, HOPE, who won thy ear,
Must charm no more the dang'rous hour;
The warning voice of ravens hear,
That croak thy doom on yonder tow'r.

Yet what is life 'midst HORROR's reign, Where MURDER's triumph cleaves the sky; Where heaves with death the groaning scene, And dungeons loud for vengeance cry?