Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among

trees,

And chatter their transports in groves, if they please :

But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me.

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to

cure.

I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy,

That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye;

But in London these devils so quick fly about,
That a new devil still drives an old devil out.

In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!

CHARLES MORRIS.

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE

CORONATION (1715).

S some fond Virgin, whom her mother's

care,

Drags from the Town to wholesome
Country air,

Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew ;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Assembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea;
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ;
Up to her godly garret after sev’n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, 'No words!'

Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thoughts recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rise on ev'ry green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd
Knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

you;

So when your Slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,

Look sour, and hum a Tune, as you may now. ALEXANDER POPE.

ON A YOUNG LADY'S GOING TO TOWN

IN THE SPRING.

NE night unhappy Celadon,

Beneath a friendly myrtle's shade, With folded arms and eyes cast down, Gently repos'd his love-sick head: Whilst Thirsis, sporting on the neighbouring plain, Thus heard the discontented youth complain :

"Ask not the cause why sickly flowers
Faintly recline their drooping heads;
As fearful of approaching showers,
They strive to hide them in their beds,
Grieving with Celadon they downward
And feel with him a sympathy of woe.

grow,

"Chloris will go; the cruel fair, Regardless of her dying swain, Leaves him to languish, to despair,

And murmur out in sighs his pain. The fugitive to fair Augusta flies,

To make new slaves, and gain new victories."

So restless monarchs, though possess'd
Of all that we call state or power,
Fancy themselves but meanly blest,
Vainly ambitious still of more.

Round the wide world impatiently they roam,

Not satisfy'd with private sway at home.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

DAMON AND CUPID.

HE sun was now withdrawn,
The shepherds home were sped;
The moon wide o'er the lawn
Her silver mantle spread;

When Damon stay'd behind,
And saunter'd in the grove.
"Will ne'er a nymph be kind,
And give me love for love?

"O! those were golden hours,
When Love, devoid of cares,
In all Arcadia's bowers,

Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs;

But now from wood and plain

Flies every sprightly lass;

No joys for me remain,

In shades, or on the grass."

The winged boy draws near,
And thus the swain reproves:
"While Beauty revell'd here,

My game lay in the groves;
At court I never fail

To scatter round my arrows:
Men fall as thick as hail,

And maidens love like sparrows.

"Then, swain, if me you need,

Straight lay your sheep-hook down;
Throw by your oaten reed,

And haste away to town.

So well I'm known at court,
None ask where Cupid dwells:

But readily resort

To Bellendens or Lepels."

JOHN GAY.

THE BRIDE IN THE COUNTRY.

Y the side of a half-rotten wood
Melantha sate silently down,
Convinc'd that her scheme was not
good,

And vex'd to be absent from town.
Whilst pitied by no living soul,

To herself she was forc'd to reply. And the sparrow, as grave as an owl, Sate list'ning and pecking hard by.

"Alas! silly maid that I was;"

Thus sadly complaining, she cry'd; "When first I forsook that dear place, It had been better far I had died!