While I, as Faunus us'd of old,
 The awkward, rural Nymphs pursue,
Who sometimes kind ; but oftner cold ,
Now hugg , and kiss ; now scratch , and scold ,
 And make me black , and blew .
While thus in Ditch , or under Hedge
Of Love we give the surest Pledge ,
 Expos'd to Wind , and Weather ,
May you , and bright Lavinia play
On Velvet Couches all the Day,
 And toy at Ease together!
Still may the charming Nymph inspire
New Vigour , new Poetic Fire,
While we the tuneful, happy Swain admire.

— — Tali Auxilio — —

Tempus eget — —

YourSonneareighteenYears of Age,
Too tall forSchool, or a CourtPage,
(Tho oft yourNeighbour, his goodGrace,
Promis'd hisGodsonsuch aPlace,
Sets out: no matter; you haveFriends,
And something betterNedattends
At his Return fromforeignLand,
Where now he's sent by your Command.
He's gone; but, with an aching Mind,
To leave his darlingHoundsbehind;
The wearyTaskperforms in haste,
And thinks hisTime, andLabourwaste,
Impatient, restless, and in pain,
Till he canhuntathomeagain;

While you the Sick to Health restore,
Like your Hippocrates of yore,
On Thames 's Banks I court the Muse ,
Blest, when her Aid she don't refuse,
And, careless, no Ambition prove,
But humbly thus to Sing , and Love ;
Not wishing , what I can't possess ;
Content, cou'd Fortune give me less,
So I your Friendship still may share,
And fancy Cloi true , and fair .
When I my artless Lays impart,
You show your Candour , and your Heart ,
To all my Errors just ; but kind ;
Rather to Praise , than blame inclin'd;

Tho' Matters go not to your mind;
Tho' Britain you ungrateful find;
Belinda false, and Fortune blind,
Leave you for this your native shore,
As wand'ring cou'd your Peace restore?
Alas! this Toil you well may spare;
You cou'd not, Friend , out-travel Care ,
Around all Europe shou'd you strole,
Or visit either distant Pole:
Tho' all her Sails the Vessel crouds,
Sorrow will fit upon her shrowds ,
Swift as the strongest Gale that blows;
And in all Climes Affliction grows:
The Cure must in your self be found,

Now the moon is rising
O'er the forest trees,
Fain would I inform me
Where my lover is:

For he made me promise,
Ere the moon should smile,
Here to wait his coming —
What a weary while!

All the cows — l've milk'd them —
O, the ling'ring hour:
I have wreath'd the arbor
With each fragrant flower.

Wherefore does he tarry?
Welcome would he be;
Many a kiss should meet him,
Come, O come to me!

O! HE comes — I hear him,
Yes! I hear him now —
No! it was the breezes
Rustling in the bough.

'Twas in that Month which follows May ,
(I never can forget the Day! )
When first I gaz'd on Phaebe 's Eyes,
When first my Heart became her Prize
In Sighs the tedious Summer past:
We cheerful Autumn saw at last;
But still I sigh'd: rude Winter came;
In Frost , and Snow I burnt the same:
Now Spring returns; still, still I burn!
When, Love! must Phaebe have her Turn

I.

Neptune , whose Trident shakehe Ground,
Why all this mighty Rage to those,
By whom your Altars still are crown'd?
Why are we treated like your Foes?

II.

The Trojan Race we never knew,
Who did your Godhead once beguile:
No! We are Britains bold, and true,
Free Natives of your favour'd Isle .

III.

Then Neptune , let our Pray'rs prevail,
Nor with our Ship thus rudely sport:
Send Zephyrus to fill our Sail ,
And safely guide us to our Port .

M INERVA .

Author , your Productions seem
Like a sick Man's troubled Dream ;
Neither Middle, Tail, or Head;
Stole unfinish'd, cold, and dead.

Author .

Goddess of fine Arts! forgive!
I've no better Trade , to live;
And must suit my stupid Page
To the Genius of the Age :
This, I'm certain, will go down,
Get me Money and Renown .
Pallas , read this long Essay ,
Made in a short Winter's Day;
And this Book I sweat, to Write ,

What colors! what sweet fragrance ye are throwing,
What beauties scattering on that lovely shore;
Flowrets! so blue, so meek, so lowly growing —
Ye fair forget-me-nots — thus sprinkled o'er.
O! I have seen in other distant lands,
The self-same glances of your azure eyes —
Then still the tumult of my stormy sighs,
And strengthen all my heart with firmer bands.
Would that it were my lot, ye starry flowers!
To mingle with your buds, the banks along
Of Rakosh, and the silver current strong
Of Saale — I would tell the flowing hours

'Twixt Vice and Virtue here the doubtfu Strife
Concludes: Here ends the Comedy of Life.
Th' Award uncertain, the Disposer just,
Presume I dare not; why should I distrust?