May your accounts fo with your lord ftand clear,
And have your reputation like your beer;
The main perfection of your life pursue,
In March, October, every month, ftill brew,
And get the character of "Who but You?"

NERO.

A SATIRE.

We know how ruin once did reign,
When Rome was fir'd, and senate flain;
The prince, with brothe:'s gore imbrued;
His tender mother's life purfued;
How he the carcafe, as it lay,
Did without tear or blush furvey,
And cenfure each majestic grace
That ftill adorn'd that breathless face:
Yet he with fword could domineer
Where dawning light does firft appear
From rays of Phoebus; and command
Through his whole course, ev'n to that krand
Where he, abhorring such a sight,
Sinks in the watery gloom of night:
Yet he could death and terror throw,
Where Thule ftarves in northern fnow,
Where fouthern heats do fiercely pafs
O'er burning fands that melt to glass.

Fond hopes Could height of power affuage
The mad excefs of Nero's rage?
Hard is the fate, when fubjects find
The fword unjust to poifon join'd!

AD AMICUM.

PRIMUS Angliacis, Carolina Tyntus* in oras,
Palladias artes fecum, cytharamque fonantem
Attulit; aft illi comites Parnaflido una
Adveniunt, autorque viæ confultus Apollo:
Ilie idem fparfos longè latèque colonos
Legibus in carus fæ quis, atque oppida cogit;

Hinc hominum molliri animes, hinc mercibus optis
Crefcere divitias et furgere tecta deorum.
Talibus aufpiciis doctæ conduntur Athenæ,
Sic byrfa ingentem Didonis crevit in urbem
Carthago regum domitrix; fic aurea Koma
Orbe triumphato nitidum caput intulit aftris.

ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH.

TYNTE was the man who firft, from British fhore'
Palladian arts to Carolina bore;

His tuneful harp attending muses strung,
And Fhæbus' fkill infpir'd the lays he fung.
Strong towers and palaces their rife began,
And liftening ftones to facred fabrics ran.
Jult laws were taught, and curious arts of peace,
And trade's brifk current flow'd with wealth's
increase.

On tuch foundations learned Athens rofe;
So Dido's throng did Carthage first inclofe:

Major Taynte, Governor of Carolina,

So Rome was taught old empires to subdue,
As Tynte creates and governs, now, the new.

ULYSSES AND TIRESIAS.
ULYSSES.

TELL me, old prophet, tell me how,
Eftate when funk, and pocket low,
What fubtle arts, what fecret ways,
May the defponding fortune raise?
You laugh: thus mifery is fcorn'd!

TIRESIAS.

Sure 'tis enough, you are return'd Home by your wit, and view again Your farm of Ithac, and wife Pen. ULYSSES.

Sage friend, whofe word's a law to me, My want and nakedness you fee: The sparks, who made my wife fuch offers, Have left me nothing in my coffers; They've kill'd my oxen, fheep, and getse, Eat up my bacon and my cheese. Lineage and virtue, at this push, Without the gelt, 's not worth a rush.

TIRESIAS.

Why, not to mince the matter more,
You are averfe to being poor;
Therefore find out fome rich old cuff,
That never thinks he has enough:
Have you a fwan, a turkey-pye,
With woodcocks, thither let them fly,
The firft-fruits of your early spring,
Not to the gods, but to him bring.
Though he a foundling baftard be,
Convict of frequent perjury;

His hands with brother's blood imbrued,
By justice for that crime pursued;
Never the wall, when afk'd, refuse,
Nor lofe your friend, to fave your shoes.

ULYSSES.

'Twixt Damas and the kennel go! Which is the filthieft of the two?

Before Troy-town it was not fo.

There with the best I us'd to strive.

TIRESIAS.

Why, by that means you'll never thrive, ULYSSES.

It will be very hard, that's true: Yet I'll my generous mind subdue.

TRANSLATION FROM TASSO.
CANTO III. ST. 3.

So when bold mariners, whom hopes of ore
Have urg'd to feek fome unfrequented thore:
The fea grown high, and pole unknown, do find
How falfe is every wave, and treacherous every
wind!

If wish'd for land fome happier fight defcries,
Distant huzzas, faluting clamours, rife:
Each ftrives to fhew his mate th' approaching 27,
Forgets paft danger, and the tedious way.

Till their difcreeteft wits could ask no more;

And when, by fate, they came to breathe their laft,
Diffolv'd in fleep their flitting vitals pafs'd.
Then to much happier mansions they remov'd,
There prais'd their God, and were by him belov'd.

THAME AND ISIS.

So the god Thame, as through fome pond he glides,

Into the arms of wandering Ifis flidės:

His ftrength, her foftnefs, in one bed combine,
And both with bands inextricable join.
Now no cœrulean nymph, or sea god, knows,
Where Ifis, or where Thame, distinctly flows;
But with a lafting charm they blend their stream,
Producing one imperial river-Thame.

Which won't permit the rambling stars
To fall together by the ears:
Which orders still the proper season
For hay and oats, and beans and peafen:
Which trims the fun with its own beams;
Whilft the moon ticks for her's, it seems,
And, as asham'd of the difgrace,
Unmasks but feldom all her face:
Which bounds the ocean within banks,
To hinder all its mad-cap pranks:
Like wheel to nave, or joint to fpit!
Which does the globe to an axle fit,

But then again! How can it be
Whilft fuch vaft tracks of earth we fee
O'er-run by barbarous tyranny!
Vile fycophants in clover blefs'd;
Whilft patriots with Duke Humphry feast,
Brow-beaten, bullied, and oppress'd!
Pimps rais'd to honour, riches, rule;
Whilft he, who seems to be a tool,
Is the priest's knave, the placeman's fool!
This whimsical phænomenon,
Confounding all my pro and con,
Bamboozles the account again,
And draws me nolens volens in,
Like a profs'd foldier, to efpoufe
The fceptic's hypothetic caufe:
Who Kent will to a codling lay us,
That cross-or-pile refin'd the chaos;
That jovial atoms once did dance,
And form'd this merry orb by chance,
No art or skill were taken up,

NATURE a thousand ways complains,

A thousand words exprefs her pains: But for her laughter has but three, And very fmall ones, Ha, ha, he!

THE STUMBLING BLOCK.

FROM CLAUDIAN'S RUFINUS.

TWENTY Conundrums have of late
Been buzzing in my addle pate.
If earthly things are rul'd by heaven,
Or matters go at fix and feven,

The coach without a coachman driven?
A pilot at the helm to guide,
Or the ship left to wind and tide?
A great first caufe to be ador'd,
Or whether all's a lottery-board?
For when, in viewing nature's face,
I fpy fo regular a grace!
So just a fymmetry of features,

From ftem to ftern, in all her creatures!
When on the boistrous sea I think,
How 'tis confin'd like any fink!

How fummer, winter, spring, and fall,

Dance round in fo exact a hawl!

How, like a chequer, day and night,

One's mark'd with black, and one with white!
Quoth I, I ken it well from hence,
There's a prefiding influence!

A vacuum's another maxim;

Where, he brags, experience backs him:
Denying that all space is full,

From infide of a Tory's fkull.
As to a deity, his tenet

Swears by it, there's nothing in it;
Elfe 'tis too bufy or too idle,
With our poor bagatelles to meddle.
Anna's a curb to lawless Louis,
Which as illustrious as true is;
Her victories o'er defpotic right,
That paffive non-resisting bite,
Have brought this mystery to light:
Have fairly made the riddle out,
And answer'd all the squeamish doubt;
Have clear'd the regency on high,
From every presumptuous why.

No more I boggle as before,
But with full confidence adore;
Plain, as nofe on face, expounding
All this intricate dumb founding;
Which to the meanest conception is,
As followeth hereunder, viz.

"Tyrants mount but like a meteor, "To make their headlong fall the greater."

THE GARDEN PLOT, 1709.

WHEN Naboth's vineyard look'd fo fine,

The king cried out, "Would this were mine!"

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And yet no reafon could prevail, To bring the owners to a fale; Jezebel faw, with haughty pride, How Ahab griev'd to be denied: And thus accofted him with scorn,

"Shall Naboth make a monarch mourn?
"A king, and weep! the ground's your own:
"I'll veft the garden in the crown."
With that the hatch'd a plot, and made
Poor Naboth answer with his head.
And when his harmless blood was fpilt,
The ground became the forfeit of his guilt.
P. or Hall, renown'd for comely hair,
Whose hands, perhaps, were not fo fair,
Yet had a Jezebel as near.

Hall, of fmali Scripture converfation,
Yet howe'er Hungerford's quotation,
By fome ftrange accident had got
The story of this garden plot;
Wifely forefaw he might have reason
To dread a modern bill of treason,
If Jezebel fhould please to want
His fmall addition to her grant;
Therefore refolv'd in humble fort
To begin first, and make his court;
And, feeing nothing elfe would do,
Gave a third part, to fave the other two.

Happy that place, where much less care is had
To fave the virtuous, than protect the bad;
Where paftors must their ftubborn flock obey,
Or that be thought a scandal which they fay:
For, fhould a fin, by fome grand foul belov'd,
Chance with an aukward zeal to be reprov'd,
And tender confcience meet the fatal curfe,
Of hardening by reproof, and growing wort:
When things to fuch extremities are brought,
'Tis not the finner's, but the teacher's fault.
With great men's wickedness, then, reft content,
And give them their own leisure to repent;
Whilst their own headstrong will alone muít cuá
them,

And nothing vex, or venture to disturb them,
Left they should lose their favour in the court,
And no one but themselves be forry fat.
Were I in panegyric vers'd like you,
I'd bring whole offerings to your merit due.
You've gain'd the conqueft; and I freely own,
Diffenters may by churchmen be outdone.
Though once we feem'd to be at fuch a difance,
Yet both concenter in divine refistance;
Both teach what kings must do when fubjedsight,
And both difclaim hereditary right.
By Jove's command, two eagles took their fight,)
One from the eaft, the fource of infant light,
The other from the west, that bed of night
The birds of thunder both at Delphi meet,
The centre of the world, and wildom's it.
So, by a power not decent here to name,
To one fixt point our various notions came,
Your thoughts from Oxford and from Windr
flew,
(review
Whilft fhop and meeting-houfe brough
Your brains fierce eloquence and logic tried;
My humbler ftrain choice focks and flaking
cried ;

Yet in our common principles we meet,
You finking from the head, I rifing from the ke

Pardon a hafty mufe, ambitious grown,
l'extol a merit far beyond his own.
For, though a modern painter can't command
The stroke of litian's or of Raphael's hand;
Yet their tranfcendent works his fancy rate;
And there's fome skill in knowing sober to pra