Now with fresh vigour Morn her Light displays

Now with fresh vigour Morn her Light displays
And the glad Birds salute her rising rays,
The opening Buds confess the Sun's return
And rouz'd from Night, all Nature seems new born,
When Pondrous Dullness slowly wing'd her way
And with thick Fogs oppos'd the rising day.
Phaebus retir'd (as from Thyestes' Feast)
Droop'd all the Flow'rs, the airial music ceas'd.
Pleas'd with her Influence, she exults with Pride,
Shall Mortals then escape my pow'r? (she cry'd)
Nay, in this Town where smoak, and mists conspire
To cloud the head, and damp the Poet's Fire,
Shall Adison my Empire here dispute,
So justly founded, lov'd, and Absolute?
Explode my Children, Ribaldry and Rhime,
Rever'd from Chaucer down to Dryden's Time,
Distinguish twixt false humour and the true
And Wit make Lovely to the vulgar Veiw?
No; Better things my Destiny Ordains,
For Oxford has the Wand, and Anna reigns.
She ended, and assum'd Duke Disney's grin,
With broad plump Face, pert Eyes, and ruddy skin,
Which shew'd the stupid Jokes that lurk'd within.
In this lov'd form she knock'd at St John's gate
Where Crouds allready for his Levee wait,
And wait they may, those wretches who appear
To talk of service past, and long arrear,
But the proud partner of his pleasures goes,
Through crouds of envious Eyes, and servile bows,
And now approaching where the Statesman lay
To his unwilling Eyes reveal'd the Day,
Starting he waked, and wakeing swore, By God
This early visit Freind is wondrous odd.
Scarse have I rested full 2 hours in Bed
And Fumes of Wine oppress my aking Head,
By thee I'm sure my Soul is understood
Too well, to plague me for the Public good,
Let stupid Patriots toil to serve the Brutes,
And waste the fleeting hours in vain Disputes,
The use of Power supreme I better know,
Nor will I lose the Joys the Gods bestow;
The sparkling Glass, soft flute, and willing Fair,
Alternate guard me from th'Attacks of Care,
'Tis the Prerogative of Wit like Mine
To Emulate in Ease the Pow'rs divine
And while I revel, leave the busy Fools,
To plot like Chymists, or to drudge like Tools.
Beleive me Lord, replys his seeming Freind,
Some Difficulties every State attend,
Cares must surround the Men that Wealth possess
And Sorrows mingle even with Love's Success,
Great as you are, no Greatness long is sure,
Advancement is but pain, if not secure,
All your long Schemes may vanish in an hour,
Oh, tremble at the sad reverse of Pow'r!
How will those slaves that waiting watch your Eye
Insulting smile, or pass regardless by!
Nor is this thought the Creature of my Fears,
Signs of approaching Ruin strong appears.
Men must be dull who passively Obey
And Ignorance fixes Arbitrary Sway,
Think of this Maxim, and no more permit
A dangerous writer to retale his Wit.
The Consequence of Sense is Liberty
And if Men think aright they will be free,
Encourrage you the Poet I shall bring,
Your Granville he allready trys to sing,
The mountains Echo, and the vallys ring.
Nor think my Lord I only recommend
An Able Author but a usefull Freind,
In verse his Phlegm, in Puns he shews his fire
And skill'd in pimping to your heart's desire.
I thank thee Duke, replys the drousy peer,
But cannot listen to thy childish Fear,
This Adison, 'tis true (debauch'd in Schools)
Will sometimes oddly talk of Musty Rules,
Yet here, and there, I see a Master line,
I feel, and I Confess the power divine,
In spite of Intrest charm'd into Applause
I wish for such a Champion to our Cause,
Nor shall your Reasons force me to submit
To patronise a Bard of meaner Wit,
Men can but say Wit did my Judgment blind
And Wit's the noblest frailty of the mind.
The disapointed Goddess swell'd with Spite,
Dropping the Borrow'd form appears in open light,
So the Sly Nymph in masquerade disguise
The Faith of her suspected Lover trys
But when the perjury too plain appears
Her eyes are fill'd with mingled rage and tears,
No more remembers the affected Tone,
Sinks the feign'd voice, and thunders in her own.
How hast thou dar'd, my party then to Quit?
Or dost thou Wretch, presume thou art a Wit?
Read thy own Verse, consider well each line,
In each Dull page, how papaply [ sic ] I shine,
'Tis me that to thy Eloquence affords
Such Empty thoughts wrap'd in superfluous Words,
To me alone your Pamphlet-praise you owe,
Tis I, your Tropes, and Florid Style, bestow.
After such wreaths bestow'd, such service done,
Dare you refuse protection to my Son?
The time shall come (th├┤ now at Court ador'd)
When still a Writer, th├┤ no more a Lord,
On Common Stalls thy darling Works be spread
And thou shall't answer 'em to make 'em read.
She said and turning shew'd her wrinkled neck
In scales and colour like a Roaches back.

From this vile Town immers'd in Dust and Care,
To you who brighten in a purer Air;
Your Faithfull Freind conveys her tenderest thought
(Th├┤ now perhaps neglected and forgot)
May blooming Health your wonted Mirth restore
And every Pleasure crown your every hour
Carress'd, esteem'd, and lov'd, your Merit known
And Foreign Lands adore you like your own,
While I in silence various Tortures bear
Distracted with the rage of Bosom-War.
My restless Fever tears my changing Brain
With mix'd Ideas of Delight and Pain,
Sometimes soft views my morning Dreams employ
In the faint Dawn of Visionary Joy
Which Rigid Reason quickly drives away,
I seek the Shade and curse the rising Day,
In pleasing Madness meet some Moments Ease,
And fondly cherish my belov'd Disease.
If Female weakness melts my Woman's mind
At least no weakness in the Choice I find.
Not sooth'd to softness by a warbling Flute
Or the bought Merit of a Birth-Day suit,
Nor lost my Heart, by the surprizing skill
In Opera Tunes, in danceing, or Quadrille,
The only charm my Inclination moves,
Is such a Virtue Heaven it selfe approves,
A Soul superior to each vulgar view;
Great, steady, Gentle, Generous and True.
How I regret my triffling hours past,
And look with horror on the Dreary Waste!
In False persuits and Vanity bestow'd
The perfect image of a dirty Road.
Through puddles oft, o're craggy Rocks I stray
A tiresome, dull, uncomfortable way;
And after toiling long throa thick and thin
To reach some meanly mercenary Inn,
The Bills are high, and very coarse the Fare,
I curse the wretched Entertainment there;
And jogging on, resolve to stop no more
When Gaudy Signs invite me to the Door.
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