What clothes you made! how fine you drest! What Dresden china for her feast!

But I'll no longer teaze you; Yet 'tis a truth you can't deny, Tho' lady Caroline is nigh,

And does not look quite easy.

But careful Heaven design'd her Grace
For one of the Milesian race,

On stronger parts depending;

Nature indeed denies them sense,
But gives them legs and impudence,
That beats all comprehending.

Which to accomplish, Hussey came,
Op'ning before the noble dame

His honourable trenches;

Nor of rebukes or frowns afraid,

He push'd his way (he knew his trade)
And won the place by inches.

Look down, St. Patrick, with success,
Like Hussey's, all the Irish bless,
May they all do as he does ;

And still preserve their breed the same,
Cast in his mould, made in his frame,

To comfort English widows!

ADDRESSED TO

THE AUTHOR OF

THE CONQUERED DUTCHESS.

IN ANSWER TO THAT CELEBRATED PERFORMANCE.

BY EARL NUGENT.

WHAT clamour's here about a dame,
Who, for her pleasure, barters fame!
As if 'twere strange or new,
That ladies should themselves disgrace,
Or one of the Milesian race

A widow should pursue.

She's better sure than Scudamore,

Who, while a Dutchess, play'd the whore,

As all the world has heard;

Wiser than Lady Harriet too,

Whose foolish match made such ado,

And ruin'd her and Beard.

Yet she's as gay as Lady Vane,

Who, should she list her am'rous train,

Might fairly man a fleet;

Sprightly as Orford's Countess, she,
And as the wanton Townshend free,
And more than both, discreet.

For she had patience first to wed
Before she took the man to bed!
And can you say that's bad?
Like Diomed's, your arrows rove;
Like him you wound the Queen of love,
And may like him run mad.

There was, Sir Knight, there was a time,
If you invok'd your Muse for rhyme,
That all the world stood gazing;
You sung us then of folks that sold
Themselves and country too for gold,
Or something as amazing :

How Sandys, in sense, and person queer, Jump'd from a patriot to a peer,

No mortal yet knows why;

How Pulteney truck'd the fairest fame

For a Right Honourable name

To call his vixen by:

How Compton rose when Walpole fell, 'Twas you, and only you could tell, And all the scene disclos'd;

How Vane and Rushout, Bathurst, Gower, Were curs'd and stigmatiz'd by power, And rais'd to be expos'd.

To heights like these your Muse should fly, To others leave the middle sky,

Whose wings are weak and flaggy ; Leave these to some young Foppington, Who takes your leavings, Woffington, And tunes his odes to Peggy.

For you, who know the sex so well,
Must own that women most excell,
When ruling, or when rul'd;
While young, they others lead astray,
When old they ev'ry call obey,

Still fooling, or befool'd

Scheme upon scheme must still succeed,
They ev'ry coxcomb's tale must heed,
Until their brains grow muzzy;
And then by one false step 'tis seen,
How slight the diff'rence is between

The Dutchess and the Hussey.

ODE III.

THE

RURAL REFLECTIONS

OF A

WELCH POET.

STOP, Stop, my steed! hail, Cambria, hail,
With craggy cliffs and darksome vale,
May no rude steps defile 'em!
Your poet, with a vengeance sent
From London, post, is hither bent,
To find a safe asylum.

Bar, bar the doors, exclude e'en Fear,
Who press'd upon my horse's rear,
And made the fleet still fleeter

Here shall my hurried soul repose,
And, undisturb'd by Irish prose,
Renew my lyric metre.

Thus Flaccus, at Philippi's fields,
Behind him left his little shield,

And sculk'd in Sabine cavern:

Had I not wrote that cursed ode,
My coward heart I ne'er had show'd,

The jest of every tavern.