The nymph with indignation view'd
The dull, the noisy, and the lewd:
For Pallas, with celestial light,
Had purifi'd her mortal sight;
Show'd her the virtues all combin'd,
Fresh blooming, in young Harley's mind.
Terrestrial nymphs, by former arts,
Display their various nets for hearts:
Their looks are all by method set,
When to be prude, and when coquette;
Yet, wanting skill and power to choose,
Their only pride is to refuse.
But, when a goddess would bestow
Her love on some bright youth below,
Round all the earth she casts her eyes;
And then, descending from the skies,
Makes choice of him she fancies best,
And bids the ravish'd youth be bless'd,
Thus the bright Empress of the Morn
Chose for her spouse, a mortal born:
The goddess made advances first;
Else what aspiring hero durst?
Though, like a virgin of fifteen,
She blushes when by mortals seen;
Still blushes, and with speed retires,
When Sol pursues her with his fires.
Diana thus, Heaven's chastest queen, Struck with Endymion's graceful mien, Down from her silver chariot came, And to the shepherd own'd her flame. Thus Ca'endish, as Aurora bright, And chaster than the Queen of Night, Descended from her sphere to find A mortal of superior kind.
WRITTEN IN IRELAND IN OCTOBER, 1714.
"TIS true-then why should I repine
To see my life so fast decline?
But why obscurely here alone,
Where I am neither lov'd nor known?
My state of health none care to learn;
My life is here no soul's concern :
And those with whom I now converse
Without a tear will tend my hearse.
Remov'd from kind Arbuthnot's aid,
Who knows his art, but not his trade,
Preferring his regard for me
Before his credit, or his fee.
Some formal visits, looks, and words,
What mere humanity affords,
I meet perhaps from three or four,
From whom I once expected more;
Which those who tend the sick for pay
Can act as decently as they:
But no obliging tender friend
To help at my approaching end.
My life is now a burden grown
To others, ere it be my own.
Ye formal weepers for the sick,
In your last offices be quick;
And spare my absent friends the grief
To hear, yet give me no relief;
Expir'd to day, intomb'd to-morrow.
When known, will save a double sorrow.
THE FABLE OF THE BITCHES:
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1715.
ON AN ATTEMPT TO REPEAL THE TEST ACT.
A BITCH that was full pregnant grown,
By all the dogs and curs in town,
Finding her ripen'd time was come,
Her litter teeming from her womb,
Went here and there, and every where,
To find an easy place to lay her.
At length to Music's house* she came,
And begg'd like one both blind and lame;
My only friend, my dear," said she,
"You see 'tis mere necessity
Hath sent me to your house to whelp:
I die if you refuse your help."
With fawning whine, and rueful tone,
With artful sigh and feigned groan,
With couchant cringe, and flattering tale,
Smooth Bawty+ did so far prevail,
That Music gave her leave to litter;
(But mark what follow'd-faith! she bit her)
Whole baskets full of bits and scraps,
And broth enough to fill her paps;
For, well she knew, her numerous brood,
For want of milk, would suck her blood.
But when she thought her pains were done,
And now 'twas high time to be gone;
In civil times,-"My friend," said she,
"My house you've had on courtesy;
The Church of England. H.
A Scotch name for a bitch; alluding to the Kirk. H.
And now I earnestly desire,
That you would with your cubs retire;
For, should you stay but one week longer,
I shall be starved with cold and hunger."
The guest repli'd-" My friend, your leave
I must a little longer crave;
Stay till my tender cubs can find
Their way for now, you see, they're blind;
But, when we've gather'd strength, I swear,
We'll to our barn again repair."
The time pass'd on; and Music came,
Her kennel once again to claim;
But Bawty, lost to shame and honour,
Set all her cubs at once upon her ;
Made her retire, and quit her right,
And loudly cry'd-" A bite! a bite!"
Thus did the Grecian wooden horse
Conceal a fatal armed force :
No sooner brought within the walls,
But Ilium's lost, and Priam falls.
HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II.
TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER.
SENT TO HIM WHEN IN THE TOWER, 1716.
How blest is he, who for his country dies,,
Since death pursues the coward as he flies?
The youth in vain would fly from Fate's attack,
With trembling knees and terror at his back
Though Fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.
Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the staff,* nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.
Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try
Some new unbeaten passage to the sky;
Where Jove a seat among the gods will give
To those who die, for meriting to live.
Next faithful silence has a sure reward;
Within our breast be every secret barr'd!
He, who betrays his friend, shall never be
Under one roof, or in one ship, with me.
For who with traitors would his safety trust,
Lest with the wicked, Heaven involve the just?
And, though the villain 'scape a while, he feels
Slow Vengeance, like a bloodhound, at his heels.
OR, THE PROGRESS OF LOVE, 1716.
DESPONDING Phyllis was endued
With every talent of a prude:
She trembled when a man drew near;
Salute her, and she turn'd her ear:
If o'er against her you were plac'd,
She durst not look above your waist:
She'd rather take you to her bed,
Then let you see her dress her head:
*The ensign of the lord treasurer's office. H.
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