When the laborious wife slept little,

Spun wool, and boil'd her husband's kettle;
When the Armada frighten'd Kent,

And good Queen Bessy pitch'd her tent.
Now from security we feel

More ills than threaten'd us from steel;
Severer luxury abounds,

Avenging France of all her wounds.
When our old British plainness left us,
Of ev'ry virtue it bereft us :

And we've imported from all climes
All sorts of wickedness and crimes:
French finery, Italian meats,

With German drunkenness, Dutch cheats.
Money's the source of all our woes;
Money! whence luxury o'erflows,
And in a torrent, like the Nile,
Bears off the virtues of this isle.

We shall here close our translation of this satire; for as the remainder is in many places too obscene for chaste ears; so, to the honour of the English ladies, the Latin is by no means applicable to them, nor indeed capable of being modernized.

TO MISS HAND AT BATH.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN THE PUMP-ROOM, 1742.

SOON shall these bounteous springs thy wish bestow,
Soon in each feature sprightly health shall glow;
Thy eyes regain their fire, thy limbs their grace,
And roses join the lilies in thy face.

But say, sweet maid, what waters can remove
The pangs of cold despair, of hopeless love?
The deadly star which lights th' autumnal skies
Shines not so bright, so fatal as those eyes.
The pains which from their influence we endure,
Not Brewster, glory of his art, can cure.

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