III. But I will lay my mufic by, And bid the mournful strings in filence lie; Unless my fongs begin and end with you, To whom my strings, to whom my fongs, are due. No pride does with your rifing honours grow, You meekly look on fuppliant crowds below. Should fortune change your happy state, You could admire, yet envy not, the great. Your equal hand holds an unbias'd scale, Where no rich vices, gilded baits, prevail : You with a generous honefty despise What all the meaner world fo dearly prize; Nor does your virtue disappear, With the small circle of one short-liv'd year; We barbarously call those bleft, Through all the glittering paths of charming ill; And scorn alike her friendship and her hate; Loth to purchase life fo dear; } But kindly for their friend embrace cold Death, TRANSLATION OF THE FOLLOWING VERSE FROM LUCAN. "Victrix caufa Diis placuit, fed victa Catoni." The Gods and Cato did in this divide, They choose the conquering, he the conquer'd fide. TO MR. EDMUND SMITH. MU UN, rarely credit Common Fame, Unheeded let her praife or blame; As whimfies guide the goffip tattles Of wits, of beauties, and of battles; To-day the warrior's brow fhe crowns, For naval fpoils, and taken towns; To-morrow all her fpite fhe rallies, And votes the victor to the gallies. Nor in her vifits can fhe spare For inftance:-Chloe's bloom did boast What fops of figure did fhe bring The froft of age, with certain pickles "Then who'd on common Fame rely, "Whose chief employment 's to decry? "A cogging, fickle, jilting female, "As ever ply'd at fix in the Mall; "The father of all fibs begat her "On fome old newfman's fufty daughter." O Captain! Taifez-vous-'twere hard When Phoebus fent her to recite Your name with lofty Shakespeare join'd ; W THE SPELL, } HENE'ER I wive, young Strephon cry'd, A faultlefs make, a manag'd wit, Clean is the blifs, and will not cloy. Or half of Hymen's taper wafted, *This poem, with a few alterations, is to be found in Fenton, under the title of The Platonic Spell." N. The The winning air, the wanton trip, Are naufeous or infipid grown; E LE G Y UPON THE DEATH OF TIBULLUS. FROM OVID. F Memnon's fate, bewail'd with conftant dew, Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings. Poets large fouls heaven's nobleft ftamps do bear, In vain to Gods (if Gods there are) we pray, Go, frantic poet, with delufions fed, What can we hope? fince that a narrow fpan His mother weeping does his eye-lids clofe, With thofe, two fair, two mournful rivals come, And add a greater triumph to his tomb: Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiís, And both contend which reap'd the greater blifs. Thus Delia fpoke (when fighs no more could laft) Renewing by remembrance pleasures paft ; "When youth with vigour did for joy combine, "I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine: "I entertain'd his hot, his firft defire, "And kept alive, till age, his active fire.” To her then Nemefis (when groans gave leave), "As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve: "Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine, "About my neck his dying arms did twine; "I fnatch'd his foul, which true to me did prove: "Age ended yours, death only stopp'd my love.” If any poor remains furvive the flames, Except thin fhadows, and more empty names; Free in Elyfium shall Tibullus rove, Nor fear a fecond death should cross his love. There fhall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart To his far dearer friend his open heart: There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lye) Shall, free from cenfure, no more rafhly die. Such fhall our poet's bleft companions be, And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree. But thou, rich urn, obey my strict commands, Guard thy great charge from facrilegious hands. Thou, Earth, Tibullus' afhes gently ufe, And be as foft and easy as his Muse. TO THE EVENING STAR B Englished from a Greek Idyllium. Exert, bright ftar, thy friendly light, I feek no mifer's hoarded gold; THE THE POEM S O F JOHN PHILIPS. MR. PHILIPS'S DESIGNED DEDICATION то THE SPLENDID SHILLING. TO W. BROME, ESQ OF EWITHINGTON, IN THE COUNTY OF HEREFORD. SIR, IT T would be too tedious an undertaking at this time to examine the rife and progrefs of Dedications. The ufe of them is certainly ancient, as appears both from Greek and Latin authors; and we have reason to believe that it was continued without any interruption till the beginning of this century, at which time, mottos, anagrams, and frontifpieces being introduced, Dedications were mightily difcouraged, and at last abdicated. But to difcover precifely when they were restored, and by whom they were first ushered in, is a work that far transcends my knowledge; a work that can juftly be expected from no other pen but that of your operofe Doctor Bently. Let us therefore at prefent acquiefce in the dubioufnefs of their antiquity, and think the authority of the past and prefent times a fufficient plea for your patronizing, and my dedicating this poem. Especially fince in this age Dedications are not only fashionable, but almoft neceffary; and indeed they are now fo much in vogue, that a book without one, is as feldom feen as a bawdy-house without a Practice of Piety, or a poet with money. Upon this account, Sir, thofe who have no friends, dedicate to all good chriftia.s; fome to their book, fellers; fome, for want of a fublunary patron, to the manes of a departed one. There are, that have dedicated to their whores: God help thofe hen-pecked writers that have been forced to dedicate to their own wives! but while I talk fo much of other mens patrons, I have forgot my own; and feem rather to make an efiay on Dedications, than to write one. However, Sir, I prefume you will pardon me for that fault; and perhaps like me the better for faying nothing to the purpose. You, Sir, are a perfon more tender of other mens reputation than your own; and would hear every body commended but yourself. Should I but mention your skill in turning, and the compaffion you fhewed to my fingers ends when you gave me a tobacco-stopper, you would blush and be confounded with your just praifes. How much more would you, fhould I tell you what a progrefs you have made in that abftrufe and useful language, the Saxon? Since, therefore, the recital of your excellencies would prove fo troublesome, I fhall offend your modesty no longer. Give me me leave to speak a word or two concerning the poem, and I have done. Thi poem, Sir, if we confider the moral, the newness of the fubject, the variety of images, and the exactness of the fimilitudes that compofe it, must be allowed piece that was never equalled by the moderns or ancients. The fubject of the poem is myself, a fubject never yet handled by any poets. How fit to be handled by all, we may learn by those few divine commendatory verfes written by the admirable Monfieur le Bog. Yet fince I am the fubject, and the poet too, I fhall fay no more of it, left I fhould feem vain-glorious. As for the moral, I have taken particular care that it fhould lie incognito, not like the ancients, who let you know at first fight they defign fomething by their verfes. But here you may look a good while, and perhaps, after all, find that the poet has no aim or defign, which mut needs be a diverting furprize to the reader. What fhall I fay of the fimiles, that are fo full of geography, that you must get a Welshman to understand them? that fo raise our ideas of the things they are applied to? that are fo extraordinary quaint and well chofen that there's nothing like them? So that I think I may, without vanity, fay, Avia Pieridum peragro loca, &c. Yet, however excellent this poem is, in the reading of it you will find a vaft difference between fome parts and others; which proceeds not from your humble fervant's negligence, but diet. This poem was begun when he had little victuals, and no money, and was finished when he had the misfortune at a virtuous lady's houfe to meet with both. But I hope, in time, Sir, when hunger and poverty fhall once more be my companions, to make amends for the defaults of this poem, by an effay on Minced Pies, which shall be devoted to you with all fubmiffion, by, SIR, Your most obliged, And humble fervant, J. PHILIPS. THE THE SPLENDID SHILLING. Sing, heavenly Mufe! "Things unattempted yet, in profe or rhyme," A filling, breeches, and chimeras dire. H Difaftrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long fcrolls of paper folemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire infcrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert APPY the man, who, void of cares and ftrife, Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks In filken or in leathern purfe retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain may Thus while my joylefs minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and filent pace, a Dun, Horrible monfter! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel afcends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the folemn found. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recefs I fly vie Of wood-hole; ftrait my briftling hairs erect Two noted alehoufes in Oxford, 1700. Another monster, not unlike himself, Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, So pafs my days. But, when nocturnal shades Meanwhile |