WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON A HALFPENNY,
Which a young lady gave a beggar, and the author redeemed for
DEAR little, pretty, fav'rite ore,
That once increas'd Gloriana's store;
That lay within her bosom bless'd,
Gods might have envied thee thy nest.
I've read, imperial Jove of old
For love transform'd himself to gold:
And why, for a more lovely lass,
May he not now have lurk'd in brass;
Oh! rather than from her he'd part,
He'd shut that charitable heart,
That heart whose goodness nothing less
Than his vast pow'r, could dispossess.
From Gloriana's gentle touch
Thy mighty value now is such,
That thou to me art worth alone
More than his medals are to Sloan.
Not for the silver and the gold
Which Corinth lost should'st thou be sold:
Not for the envied mighty mass
Which misers wish, or M-
Not for what India sends to Spain,
Nor all the riches of the Main.
While I possess thy little store,
Let no man call, or think, me poor;
Thee, while alive, my breast shall have,
My hand shall
Nor shalt thou be to Peter giv'n,
* Tho' he should keep me out of heav'n.
WHILE cruel to your wishing slave,
You still refuse the boon I crave,
Confess, what joy that precious pearl
Conveys to thee, my lovely girl?
Dost thou not act the miser's part,
Who with an aching lab'ring heart,
Counts the dull joyless shining store,
Which he refuses to the poor?
Confess then, my too lovely maid,
Nor blush to see thy thoughts betray'd;
What, parted with, gives heav'n to me;
Kept, is but pain and grief to thee.
* In allusion to the custom of Peter-Pence, used by the Roman Catholics.
WHEN JOVE with fair Alcmena lay,
He kept the sun a-bed all day;
That he might taste her wond'rous charms,
Two nights together in her arms.
Were I of Celia's charms possess'd,
Melting on that delicious breast,
And could, like JOVE, thy beams restrain,
Sun, thou should'st never rise again;
Unsated with the luscious bliss,
I'd taste one dear eternal kiss.
IN Celia's arms while bless'd I lay, My soul in bliss dissolved away: "Tell me,' the charmer cried, how well 'You love your Celia; Strephon, tell.' Kissing her glowing, burning cheek, 'I'll tell,' I cried-but could not speak. At length my voice return'd, and she Again began to question me.
I pulled her to my breast again,
And tried to answer, but in vain:
Short falt'ring accents from me broke,
And my voice fail'd before I spoke.
The charmer, pitying my distress,
Gave me the tenderest caress,
And sighing cried,' You need not tell ;
Oh! Strephon, Oh! I feel how well.'
WHILE hisses, groans, cat-calls thro' the pit,
Deplore the hapless poet's want of wit:
J-n W―ts, from silence bursting in a rage, Cried, Men are mad who write in such an age.' 'Not so,' replied his friend, a sneering blade, The poet's only dull, the printer's mad.'
I HATE the town and all its ways;
Ridottos, operas, and plays;
The ball, the ring, the mall, the court;
Wherever the beau-monde resort;
Where beauties lie in ambush for folks,
Earl Straffords, and the Duke of Norfolks;
All coffee-houses, and their praters;
All courts of justice, and debaters;
All taverns, and the sots within 'em ;
All bubbles and the rogues that skin 'em.
I hate all critics; may they burn all,
From Bentley to the Grub-street Journal.
All bards, as Dennis hates a pun:
Those who have wit, and who have none.
All nobles, of whatever station;
And all the parsons in the nation.
All quacks and doctors read in physic,
Who kill or cure a man that is sick.
All authors that were ever heard on,
From Bavius up to Tommy Gordon;
Tradesmen with cringes ever stealing,
And merchants, whatsoe'er they deal in.
I hate the blades professing slaughter,
More than the devil holy water.
I hate all scholars, beaus, and squires;
Pimps, puppies, parasites, and liars.
All courtiers, with their looks so smooth;
And players, from Boheme to Booth.
I hate the world, cramm'd all together,
From beggars, up the Lord knows whither.
Ask you then, Celia, if there be
The thing I love? my charmer, thee.
Thee more than light, than life adore,
Thou dearest, sweetest creature more
Than wildest raptures can express;
Than I can tell,—or thou canst guess.
Then tho' I bear a gentle mind, Let not my hatred of mankind Wonder within my Celia move, Since she possesses all my love.
COQUETTING WITH A VERY SILLY FELLOW.
CORINNA's judgment do not less admire, That she for Oulus shews a gen'rous fire; Lucretia toying thus had been a fool, But wiser Helen might have us'd the tool. Since Oulus for one use alone is fit, With charity judge of Corinna's wit.
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