For well he knows the worthless knight is Just such another as Thersites,

For bulk, abuse, and stature.

If charg'd with courage man should be, (Like powder in artillery,

Proportion'd to the barrel),

Canst thou, a blunderbuss so large,
With scarce a pocket-pistol's charge,
Presume to bounce or quarrel?

Then quit these dang'rous trifling lays,
With low abuse, or empty praise,
'Tis nonsense all, and folly;
Or, if you will be writing odes,
Which ev'ry mortal here explodes,
Write birth-day odes for Colly.

There may you stretch poetic wing,
Sing peace or war, God bless the King,'
And all his measures praise;

Then, should old Cibber chance to die,
And Hanbury lets you come and try,

Perhaps you'll get the bays.

ODE V.

то

VENUS,

ON OPENING THE PANTHEON.

BY A YOUNG LADY OF FASHION.

BRIGHT Venus, Covent-Garden's queen,
Forsake awhile each hackney'd scene,
For something new and rare;
And, quitting Lust's confin'd abode,
Bid Thomas drive to Oxford Road,
And seek a purer air.

From Nelson's, Hayes's, and Soho,
And Frere's politer bagnio,

To yon gay temple rove;

There lavish all your winning arts,
To catch our purses or our hearts,
And give a loose to love.

Libations, lo! to thee are made,
Of capillaire and lemonade,

And juice of cooling tea ;

Whole hecatombs of biscuits rise,

Beaux, bawds, and bishops, mingle sighs, To sacrifice to thee.

Bright Goddess haste, and with thee take The modish Macaroni Rake,

Who Fashion's law reveres ; Array'd, as her caprice decrees, In coat a yard above his knees, And curls above his ears.

Soft soother of the bed of Care,
Let wanton Coxe attend thee there,

For Dissipation made;

Her manners open, free, and kind,
Her heaving bosom unconfin'd
By whalebone or brocade.

Lead Vigour, lusty child of Health,
More coveted than birth or wealth,
By all who wish to please;
Without whose salutary grace,
The rapture-feigning Fops embrace
Is but a pow'r to teize.

ODE VI.

EARL DELAWAR's FAREWELL

ΤΟ

THE MAIDS OF HONOUR,

ON HIS BEING PROMOTED TO HIS LATE FATHER'S TROOP, AND RE. SIGNING THE PLACE OF VICE-CHAMBERLAIN TO THE QUEEN.

YE maids who Britain's court bedeck,
Miss Wrottesly, Tryon, Beauclerk, Keck,
Miss Meadows, and Boscawen !

A dismal tale I have to tell;

This is to bid you all farewell :
Farewell! for I am going.

I leave you, girls; indeed 'tis true,
Altho' to be esteem'd by you
Has ever been my pride:

'Tis often done at court, you know;
I leave my dearest friends, and go
Over to t'other side.

No longer shall we laugh and chat,
In th' outer room, on this and that,
Until the queen shall call :

Our gracious king has call'd me now;
Nay, holds a stick up too, I vow,

And so God bless you all!

They tell me that one word a day,
From him, is worth the whole you say,
Fair ladies, in a year:

A word from him I highly prize;
But who can leave your beauteous eyes
Without one tender tear?

No longer shall I now be seen,
Handing along our matchless queen,
So generous, good, and kind;
While one by one each smiling lass,
First drops a curtsey, as we pass,
Then trips along behind.

Adieu, my much-lov'd golden key!
No longer to be worn by me,

Adorn'd with ribband blue;
Which late I heard look'd ill and pale-

I thought it but an idle tale,

But now believe 'twas true.

Farewell, my good Lord Harcourt, too! What can, alas! your Lordship do

Alone among the maids?

You soon must some assistance ask :

You'll have a very arduous task,

Unless you call for aids,