Here are truths and grave maxims to please the discerning; Here the wit may find jokes, and the scholar find learning; Magazines of all sorts, and all manner of news. To sum up the whole, here's what each one may chuse, And what they do not they are free to refuse. That all may enjoy the effect of this treasure, And read for a trifling expense at their leisure, Twelve shillings a year gives command of the whole; Thus having announc'd to the public his station, There remains but to make this sincere declaration, That he always will strive, with his utmost endeavours, To obey their commands, and so merit their favours. It affords him the highest delight to reflect, His success is beyond what he e'er could expect; And yet such is the honour to which he aspires, It is not a whit beyond what he desires. This trifling affair having seen two editions, Appears, as most other works do, with additions: The reception the first hath obtain'd, leaves no fear That this second will meet with a fate more severe; Since it serves to convey his best thanks to his friends, By whose favour he rose, and on whom he depends; The sense of whose kindnesses past, quite absorbs Their most faithful, Sincere, humble Servant, JOHN FORBES. A Printed Shop Bill. ODE TO MUSIC. Imitated from the Medea of Euripides. QUEEN of every magic measure, Of those whom death, or absence parts; Warton. EPIGRAM. The Odds. THE bright bewitching Fanny's eyes A thousand hearts have won, Whilst she, regardless of the prize, Securely keeps her own. Ah! what a dreadful girl are you Who, if you e'en design To make me happy, must undo INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE. WHOE'ER thou art these lines now reading, Think not that from the world receding, I joy my lonely days to lead in This desert drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding Hath led me here. No thought of guilt my bosom sours, That lust and pride, The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers, In state preside. I saw that Honour's sword was rusted; In love or friend; And hither came, with men disgusted, My life to end. In this lone cave, in garments holy, And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, My life, and in my office holy I wear away Consume the day. Content and comfort bless me more in To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring, This wish I sigh: "Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, and loose desire; And when I die, Let me in this belief expire, To God I fly!". Stranger, if full of noise and riot, The Hermit's pray'r, But if thou hast a cause to sigh at Thy fault or care, If thou hast known false love's vexation, And makes thee pine; Oh! how must thou lament thy station, And envy mine! M. G. Lewis. |