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MRS. CREWE.

BY THE RIGHT HON.

CHARLES JAMES FOX.

WHERE the loveliest expression to features is join'd,
By nature's most delicate pencil design'd;

Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art,
Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the heart;
Where in manners, inchanting, no blemish we trace,
But the soul keeps the promise we had from the face;
Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove,
Defences unequal to shield us from love:
Then tell me, mysterious enchanter, oh, tell!
By what wonderful art, by what magical spell,
My heart is so fenc'd, that for once I am wise,
And
gaze without rapture on Amoret's eyes;
That
my wishes, which never were bounded before,
Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no more,
I'st reason? No; that my whole life will belye,
For who so at variance, as reason and I ?

Is't ambition that fills up each chink of my heart,
Nor allows
any softer sensation a part?

O, no! for in this all the world must agree,
One folly was never sufficient for me.
Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd,
Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd?
For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain,
Both slacken the springs of those nerves which they
strain.

That I've felt each reverse that from fortune can flow,
That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know,
Has still been the whimsical fate of my life,
Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife.
But tho' vers'd in th' extremes both of pleasure and

pain,

I am still but too ready to feel them again :

If, then, for this once in my life, I am free,

And escape from a snare might catch wiser than me; 'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms,

For tho' brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that

warms:

As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze,
But feel not their warmth, tho' their splendor we

praise,

So beauty, our just admiration may claim,

But love, and love only, the heart can enflame.

TO THE

RIGHT HON.

HENRY PELHAM.

BY

EDWARD MOORE.

THE humble Petition of the worshipful Company of Poets and News-writers,

SHEWETH,

THAT your honor's petitioners (dealers in rhymes, And writers of scandal, for mending the times), By losses in bus'ness, and England's well-doing, Are sunk in their credit, and verging on ruin.

That these their misfortunes, they humbly conceive,

Arise not from dullness, as some folks believe,
But from rubs in their way, that your honor has laid,
And want of materials to carry on trade.

That they always had form'd high conceits of their

use,

And meant their last breath should go out in abuse;
But now (and they speak it with sorrow and tears),
Since your honor has sate at the helm of affairs,
No party will join 'em, no faction invite

To heed what they say, or to read what they write;
Sedition, and Tumult, and Discord are fled,

And Slander scarce ventures to lift up her head-
In short, public bus'ness is so carry'd on,
That their country is sav'd, and the patriots undone.

To perplex him still more, and sure famine to bring

(Now satire has lost both its truth and its sting), If, in spite of their natures, they bungle at praise, Your honor regards not, and nobody pays.

YOUR Petitioners therefore most humbly entreat (As times will allow, and your honor thinks meet) That measures be chang'd, and some cause of com. plaint

Be immediately furnish'd, and end their restraint;
Their credit thereby, and their trade to retrieve,
That again they may rail, and the nation believe.

Or else (if your wisdom shall deem it all one),

C

Now the parliament's rising, and bus'ness is done,

That
your honor would please, at this dangerous crisis,
To take to your bosom a few private vices;
By which your petitioners, haply, might thrive,
And keep both themselves, and contention alive.

In compassion, good Sir! give 'em something to

say,

And your honor's petitioners ever shall pray.

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