On a NOSE GAY

IN THE COUNTESS OF COVENTRY'S BREAST *.

IN IMITATION OF WALLER.

ELIGHTFUL fcene! in which appear

DE

At once all beauties of the year !

See how the Zephyrs of her breath

Fan gently all the flow'rs beneath !
See the gay flow'rs, how bright they glow,
Tho' planted in a bed of snow!

Yet fee how foon they fade and die,
Scorch'd by the funshine of her eye!
Nor wonder if, o'ercome with blifs,
They droop their heads to steal a kifs ;
Who would not die on that dear breast?

Who would not die to be fo bleft?

* Maria Countess of Coventry, the eldest daughter of John Gunning, Efq; by his wife Bridget, daughter of John Bourk, Lord Viscount Mayo in Ireland. She was married to George William, the fixth Earl of Coventry, March 5, 1752, and departed this life October 1, 1760. Her tranfcendent beauty was the admiration of all who beheld her.

The

The 'SQUIRE and the PARSON.

AN ECLOGU E.

WRITTEN ON THE CONCLUSION OF THE PEACE, 1748.

Y his hall chimney, where in rufty grate

BY

Green faggots wept their own untimely fate,
In elbow-chair, the penfive 'Squire reclin❜d,
Revolving debts and taxes in his mind :
A pipe just fill'd upon a table near

Lay by the London-Evening * stain❜d with beer,
With half a bible, on whose remnants torn
Each parish round was annually forfworn.
The gate now claps, as ev'ning juft grew dark,
Tray starts, and with a growl prepares to bark;
But foon difcerning, with fagacious nofe,
The well-known favour of the parfon's toes,
Lays down his head, and finks in soft repose :
The doctor ent❜ring, to the tankard ran,
Takes a good hearty pull, and thus began:

}

* The London Evening Poft, the only paper at that time taken in and read by the enemies to the Houfe of Hanover.

PARSON,

PARSON.

Why fit'ft thou thus, forlorn and dull, my friend,
Now war's rapacious reign is at an end ?
Hark, how the distant bells inspire delight !

See bonfires fpangle o'er the veil of night!

'SQUIRE.

What's peace, alas ! in foreign parts to me?
At home, nor peace nor plenty can I see;
Joylefs I hear drums, bells, and fiddles found,
'Tis all the fame-Four fhillings in the pound.
My wheels, tho' old, are clog'd with a new tax;
My oaks, tho' young, muft groan beneath the axe :
My barns are half unthatch'd, until'd my house,
Loft by this fatal fickness all my cows:

See there's the bill my late damn'd law-suit cost!
Long as the land contended for,--and loft:
Ev'n Ormond's head I can frequent no more,
So fhort my pocket is, so long the score;
At shops all round I owe for fifty things.—
This comes of fetching Hanoverian kings.

PARSON.

PARSON.

I must confefs the times are bad indeed,

No wonder; when we scarce believe our creed;
When purblind Reason's deem'd the surest guide,
And heav'n-born Faith at her tribunal try'd;

When all church-pow'r is thought to make men flaves,
Saints, martyrs, fathers, all call'd fools and knaves.

'SQUIRE.

Come, preach no more, but drink, and hold your

tongue :

I'm for the church :-but think the parfons wrong.

PARSON.

See there! free-thinking now so rank is grown, It spreads infection thro' each country town; Deiftic fcoffs fly round at rural boards,

'Squires, and their tenants too, profane as lords,

Vent impious jokes on every facred thing.

'SQUIRE.

Come, drink;

5

PARSON.

PARSON.

-Here's to you then, to church and king :

'SQUIRE.

Here's church and king; I hate the glass shou'd

stand,

Tho' one takes tythes, and t'other taxes land.

PARSON.

Heav'n with new plagues will fcourge this finful

nation,

Unless we foon repeal the toleration,

And to the church restore the convocation.

'SQUIRE.

Plagues we fhou'd feel fufficient, on my word,
Starv'd by two houses, priest-rid by a third.
For better days we lately had a chance,

Had not the honest Plaids been trick'd by France.

PARSON.

Is not moft gracious GEORGE our faith's defender? You love the church, yet wifh for the Pretender!

'SQUIRE.