Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable the Lady ELIZABETH GERMAIN .

I Sought a patroness, but sought in vain,
Apollo whisper'd in my ear — " Germain . —
I know her not — " Your reason's somewhat odd;
" Who knows his patron, now! reply'd the God.
" Men write, to me , and to the world , unknown;
" Then steal great names to shield them from the Town.
" Detected worth , like beauty disarray'd,
" To covert flies, of praise itself afraid;
" Should she refuse to patronize your lays,
" In vengeance write a Volume in her praise .

Nor reigns Ambition in bold man alone;
Soft female hearts the rude Invader own,
But, there indeed, it deals in nicer things
Than routing armies , and dethroning kings .
Attend, and you discern it in the Fair
Conduct a finger , or reclaim a hair ;
Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye ;
Or in full joy elaborate a sigh .

The Sex we honour, tho' their faults we blame;
Nay thank their faults for such a fruitful theme.
A theme, fair — — ! doubly kind to me,
Since fatarizing those , is praising thee;

To the Right Honourable

Sir Spencer compton.

Round some fair tree th' ambitious wood bine grows,
And breathes her sweets on the supporting boughs:
So sweet the verse , th' ambitious verse, should be,
(O! pardon mine) that hopes support from Thee,
Thee, Compton , born o'er Senates to preside,
Their dignity to raise, their councils guide;
Deep to discern, and widely to survey,
And Kingdoms fates, without ambition, weigh;
Of distant Virtues nice extremes to blend,
The crown's asserter, and the people 's Friend:

To the Right Honourable

Mr. Dodington .

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To ease the burden of my grateful thought;
And now a poet's gratitude you see,
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three ;
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love, and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Tho' prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend ;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,

My Muse, proceed, and reach thy destin'd end;
Tho' toil , and danger the bold task attend.
Heroes , and Gods make other poems fine,
Plain Satire calls for sense in ev'ry line;
Then, to what swarms thy faults I dare expose?
All friends to vice and folly , are thy foes;
When such the Foe, a war eternal wage,
'Tis most Ill-nature to repress thy rage;
And if these strains some nobler Muse excite,
I'll glory in the Verse I did not write.

So weak are human kind by nature made,
Or to such weakness by their vice betray'd,

To His Grace the

DUKE of Dorset .

M Y Verse is Satire; D ORSET , lend your ear,
And patronize a Muse you cannot fear ;
To Poets sacred is a D ORSET 's name,
Their wonted passport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a Glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled Judgment fewer faults can fee,
And gives applause to B — e , or to Me.
But you decline the mistress we pursue;
Others are fond of Fame , but Fame of You.

THE Church is fill'd; so great the faith
That City in its Bishop hath;
And now the Congregation
Are waiting there in trembling prayer
And terrible expectation.

Emmelia and her sisterhood
Have taken there their seat;
And Choristers, and Monks, and Priests
And Psalmists there, and Exorcists,
Are station'd in order meet.

In sackcloth clad, with ashes strown
Upon his whiter hair,

Public must be the sinner's shame,
As heinous his offence;
So Basil said, when he ordain'd
His form of penitence.

And never had such dismay been felt
Through that astonish'd town,
As when, at morn, the Crier went
Proclaiming up and down, —

" The miserable sinner, Eleimon,
Who for love hath sold himself to the Demon,
His guilt before God and man declares;
And beseeches all good Christians

When weariness would let her
No longer pray and weep,
And midnight long was past,
Then Cyra fell asleep.

Into that wretched sleep she sunk
Which only sorrow knows,
Wherein the exhausted body rests,
But the heart hath no repose.

Of her Father she was dreaming,
Still aware that he was dead,
When, in the visions of the night,
He stood beside her bed.

Crown'd and in robes of light he came,
She saw he had found grace;
And yet there seem'd to be
A trouble in his face.

The eye and look were still the same

Twelve years have held their quiet course
Since Cyra's nuptial day;
How happily, how rapidly,
Those years have past away!

Bless'd in her husband she hath been;
He loved her as sincerely,
(Most sinful and unhappy man!)
As he had bought her dearly.

She hath been fruitful as a vine,
And in her children bless'd;
Sorrow hath not come near her yet,
Nor fears to shake, nor cares to fret,
Nor grief to wound the breast.