And while our ships we proudly steer
Through all the conquer'd seas,
We'll shew the world that Britons bear
Their empire where they please :
Where'er our sails are once unfurl'd,
Our king rules that part of the world.
The Spaniard with a solemn grace
Still marches slowly on,
We'd quickly make him mend his pace,
Desirous to be gone:
Or if we bend our course to France,
We'll teach Monsieur more brisk to dance.
At length, the world subdu'd, again
Our course we'll homeward bend;
In women, and in brisk champagne,
Our gains we'll freely spend:
How proud our mistresses will be
To hug the men that fought as we.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1730.
CEASE, vainest nymphs, with Celia to contend,
And let your envy and your folly end.
With her almighty charms when yours compare,
When your blind lovers think you half so fair,
Each Sarum ditch, like Helicon shall flow,
And Harnam Hill, like high Parnassus, glow;
The humble daisy, trod beneath our feet,
Shall be like lilies fair, like violets sweet;
Winter's black nights outshine the summer's noon,
And farthing candles shall eclipse the moon :
T-b-ld shall blaze with wit, sweet Pope be dull,
And German princes vie with the Mogul.
Cease, then, advis'd, O cease th' unequal war,
'Tis too much praise to be o'ercome by her.
With the sweet nine so the Pierians strove;
So poor Arachne with Minerva wove :
Till of their pride just punishment they share;
Those fly and chatter, and this hangs in air.
Unhappy nymphs! O may the powers above,
Those powers that form'd this second Queen of Love,
Lay all their wrathful thunderbolts aside,
And rather pity than avenge your pride;
Forbid it, heaven, you should bemoan too late
The sad Pierian's or Arachne's fate;
That hid in leaves, and perch'd upon a bough,
You should o'erlook those walks you walk in now;
The gen'rous maid's compassion, others joke,
Should chatter scandal which you once have spoke;
Or else in cobwebs hanging from the wall,
Should be condemn'd to overlook the ball:
To see, as now, victorious Celia reign,
Admir'd, ador'd by each politer swain.
O shun a fate like this, be timely wise,
And if your glass be false, if blind your eyes,
Believe and own what all mankind aver,
And pay with them the tribute due to her.
Occasioned by her apprehending her house would be broke open, and having an old fellow to guard it, who sat up all night, with a gun without any ammunition:
LAST night, as my unwilling mind
To rest, dear Celia, I resign'd;
For how should I repose enjoy,
While any fears your breast annoy
Forbid it, heav'n, that I should be
From any of your troubles free.
O! would kind Fate attend my pray'r,
Greedy, I'd give you not a share.
Last night, then, in a wretched taking,
My spirits toss'd 'twixt sleep and waking,
I dreamt (ah! what so frequent themes
As you and Venus of my dreams!)
That she, bright glory of the sky,
Heard from below her darling's cry:
Saw her cheeks pale, her bosom heave,
And heard a distant sound of thieve!'
Not so you look when at the ball,
Envied you shine, outshining all.
Not so at church, when priest perplex'd,
Beholds you, and forgets the text.
The goddess frighten'd, to her throne Summon'd the little god her son,
And him in passion thus bespoke ;
Where, with that cunning urchin's look,
Where from thy colours hast thou stray'd? 'Unguarded left my darling maid? 'Left my lov'd citadel of beauty, 'With none but Sancho upon duty! 'Did I for this a num'rous band 'Of loves send under thy command! 'Bid thee still have her in thy sight, 'And guard her beauties day and night! 'Were not th' Hesperian gardens taken ? 'The hundred eyes of Argus shaken ? 'What dangers will not men despise, 'T' obtain this much superior prize?
'And didst thou trust what Jove hath charm'd, To a poor sentinel unarmed?
'A gun indeed the wretch had got,
'But neither powder, ball, nor shot.
Come tell me, urchin, tell no lies;
Where was you hid, in Vince's eyes?
'Did you fair Bennet's breast importune?
'(I know you dearly love a fortune.) '
Poor Cupid now began to whine;
'Mamma, it was no fault of mine.
'I in a dimple lay perdue,
"That little guard-room chose by you.
'A hundred Loves (all arm'd) did grace
'The beauties of her neck and face;
Thence, by a sigh I, dispossessed,
'Was blown to Harry Fielding's breast;
Where I was forc'd all night to stay,
'Because I could not find my way.
'But did mamma know there what work
'I've made, how acted like a Turk ;
'What pains, what torment he endures,
"Which no physician ever cures,
'She would forgive.' The goddess smil'd
And gently chuck'd her wicked child,
Bid him go back, and take more care,
And give her service to the fair.
ON HER WISHING TO HAVE A LILLIPUTIAN TO PLAY WITH.
Is there a man who would not be,
My Celia, what is priz'd by thee ?
A monkey beau, to please thy sight,
Would wish to be a monkey quite.
Or (couldst thou be delighted so)
Each man of sense would be a beau.
Courtiers would quit their faithless skill,
To be thy faithful dog Quadrille.
who does for freedom rage, Would sing confin'd within thy cage;
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