Your late kind Gift let me restore;
For I must never wear it more.
My Mother cries, ``What's here
Contented in my humble State,
I look with Pity on the Great;
Who only Birth, or Wealth, respect,
Dear Jack, whilst you thro' Flanders roam,
Can you forget your Friends at Home?
Say, will your Tut
Once Jupiter, from out the Skies,
Beheld a thousand Temples rise;
The Goddess Fortune all invok'd,
I beg your Scholar you'll excuse,
Who dares no more debase the Muse.
My Mother says, If e'er she h
Go, Jealousy, Tormentress dire;
On Lovers only seize:
In Love, like Winds, you fan the Fire,
This mourning Mother can with Ease explore
The Arts of Latium, and the Grecian Store:
Was early le
When I heard you were landed, I flew to the Nine,
Intreating their Aid to invite you to dine.
With Joy your Summons we obey,
And come to celebrate this Day.
Yet I, alas! despair to please;
Remote from Strife, from urban Throngs, and Noise.
Here dwells my Soul amidst domestic Joys:
All--bounteous Heav'n, Castalio cries,
With bended Knees, and lifted Eyes,
When shall I have the P
Ierne's now our royal Care:
We lately fix'd our Vice--roy there.
How near was she to be undone,
How well these Laymen love to gibe,
And throw their Jests on Levi's Tribe!
Must One be toil'd to D
My Lord of Killala, I find to my Sorrow,
I can't have the Honour I hop'd for, Tomorrow.
But why I'
Ye heedless Fair, who trifle Life away,
Let either Brownlow set your Notions right:
Be, like the D
The Britons, in their Nature shy,
View Strangers with a distant Eye:
We think them partial and sev
Say, my Hortensia, in this silent Hour,
When the pale Queen of Night exerts her Pow'r,
Why are we Scholars plagu'd to write,
On Days devoted to Delight?
In Honour of the King, I'd play
Dear Rose, as I lately was writing some Verse,
Which I next Day intended in School to rehearse,
As in some wealthy, trading Town,
Where Riches raise to fure Renown,
The Man, with ample Sums in S
Ye heedless Fair, who pass the live--long Day,
In Dress and Scandal, Gallantry and Play;
A mother, who vast Pleasure finds
In modelling her Childrens Minds;
With whom, in exquisite Deligh
Children are snatch'd away sometimes,
To punish Parents for their Crimes.
Thy Mother's Merit was s
So little giv'n at Chapel Door!--
This People doubtless must be poor:
So much at Gaming thrown awa
Since Milo rallies sacred Writ,
To win the Title of a Wit;
'Tis pity but he shou'd obtain it,
'Tis Time to conclude; for I make it a Rule,
To leave off all Writing, when Con. comes from School.
Written when the Author was sick.
Somnus, pow'rful Deity,
Mortals owe their Bliss to thee.
Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey
Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away: