CLIV

WINIFREDA

AWAY; let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;

Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho' no grants of royal donors,

With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honors, And, to be noble, we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke:
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.

And when with envy, Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

ANON.

CLV

THE TOUCH STONE

A FOOL and knave with different views
For Julia's hand apply;

The knave to mend his fortune sues,
The fool to please his eye.

Ask you how Julia will behave,

Depend on't for a rule,

If she's a fool she'll wed the knave

If she's a knave, the fool.

S. BISHOP.

CLVI

BEN BLOCK

BEN BLOCK was a veteran of naval renown,

And renown was his only reward;

For the Board still neglected his merit to crown,
As no interest he held with "my lord."

Yet brave as old Benbow was sturdy old Ben,
And he'd laugh at the cannon's loud roar,

When the death-dealing broadside made worm's-meat of

men,

And the scuppers were streaming with gore.

Nor could a Lieutenant's poor stipend provoke

The staunch Tar to despise scanty prog:

But his biscuit he'd crunch, turn his quid, crack his joke, And drown care in a jorum of grog.

Thus year after year in a subaltern state,

Poor Ben for his King fought and bled;

Till time had unroof'd all the thatch from his pate,
And the hair from his temples had fled.

When on humbly saluting, with sinciput bare,
The first Lord of the Admiralty once,

Quoth his Lordship, "Lieutenant, you've lost all your hair
Since I last had a peep at your sconce !"

"Why, my Lord," replied Ben-"it with truth may be said,

While a bald pate I long have stood under;

There are so many Captains walk'd over my head,
That to see me quite scalp'd were no wonder!"

J. COLLINS.

CLVII

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT

As doctors give physic by way of prevention,

Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid;
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye:

Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,

For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet, counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears, In a life party-coloured, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, lord, how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse little polish'd, though mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;

It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,

So Mat may be kill'd, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,

So Mat may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd.

If his bones lie on earth, roll in sea, fly in air,

To fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile, or a tear,

He cares not-yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame.

M. PRIOR.