ITH age decay'd, with courts and bus'nefs tir'd,

W

Caring for nothing but what eafe requir'd; Too dully ferious for the Mufe's fport, And from the critics fafe arriv'd in port; I little thought of launching forth agen, Amidt advent'rous rovers of the pen : And after fo much undeferv'd fuccefs, Thus hazarding at laft to make it lefs.

Enco

Encomiums fuit not this cenforious time,
Itself a fubject for fatyric rhyme;.

Ignorance honour'd, wit and worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd!

But to this genius, join'd with fo much art,
Such various learning mix'd in ev'ry part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet fo wonderful, fublime a thing,

As the great Iliad, fcarce fhould make me fing;
Except I juftly could at once commend

A good companion, and as firm a friend.
One moral or a mere well-natur'd deed,

Does all defert in fciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at fome men's ways, But a much greater to give merit praife.

THE

Story of ARACHNE,

From the beginning of the fixth Book of OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.

By Mr. J. GAY.

P

ALLAS, attentive heard the Mufes fong,

Pleas'd that fo well they had reveng'd their

wrong;

Reflecting thus,-A vulgar foul can praise,

My fame let glorious emulation raise,

Swift vengeance fhall pursue th' audacious pride
That dares my facred Deity deride.

Revenge

Revenge the Goddess in her breaft revolves,
And ftreight the bold Arachne's fate refolves.
Her haughty mind to heav'n difdain'd to bend,
And durft with Pallas in her art contend.

No famous town fhe boafts, or noble name;
But to her work alone owes all her fame;
Idmon her father on his trade rely'd,

And thirsty wool in purple juices dy'd;

Her mother, whom the fhades of death confine,
Was, like her husband, born of vulgar line.
At fmall Hypapa though fhe did refide,
Yet industry proclaim'd what birth deny'd,
All Lydia to her name due honour pays,
And ev'ry city speaks Arachne's praise.
Nymphs of Timolus quit their fhady woods,
Nymphs of Pactolus leave their golden floods,
And oft' with pleasure round her gazing stand,
Admire her work, and praise her artful hand,
They view each motion, with new wonder feiz'd ;
More than the work her graceful manner pleas'd.
Whether raw wool in its firft orbs fhe wound,
Or with fwift fingers twirl'd the spindle round,
Whether the pick'd with care the knotted piece,
Or comb'd like ftreaky clouds the ftretching fleece,
Whether

I 4

Whether her needle play'd the pencil's part;

'Twas plain from Pallas fhe deriv'd her art.
But the, unable to reftrain her pride,
The very mistress of her art defy'd.
Pallas obfcures her bright celestial grace,
And takes an old decrepid beldain's face.
Her head is fcatter'd o'er with filver hairs,
Which feems to bend beneath a load of years.
Her trembling hand, embofs'd with livid veins,
On trusty staff her feeble limbs fustains.

She thus accosts the nymph, "Be timely wife, "Do not the wholfome words of age despise, For in the hoary head experience lies:

"On earth contend the greatest name to gain, "To Pallas yield; with heav'n thou ftriv'ft in vain. Contempt contracts her brow, her paffions rife, And proud difdain glares in her rolling eyes: Enrag'd, the tangling thread away the throws, And scarce can curb her threatning hands from blows. "Worn out with age, and by difeafe declin'd, "(She cries) thy carcafe has furviv'd thy mind; "These lectures might thy fervile daughters move, "And wary doctrines for thy neices prove;

"My