And if she's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one
He marks the forehead of her darling son.
O scene of horror and of wild despair!
Why is the rich Atrides' splendid heir
Constrain❜d to quit his ancient lordly seat,
And hide his glories in a mean retreat?
Why that drawn sword? and whence that dismal cry?
Why pale distraction thro' the family?
See my lord threaten, and my lady weep,
And trembling servants from the tempest creep.
Why that gay son to distant regions sent ?
What fiends that daughter's destin'd match prevent?
Why the whole house in sudden ruin laid?
O nothing, but last night---my lady play'd.
But wanders not my Satire from her theme?
Is this, too, owing to the Love of Fame?
Tho' now your hearts on lucre are bestow'd,
Twas first a vain devotion to the mode.
Nor cease we hear, since 'tis a vice so strong,
The torrent sweeps all womankind along.
This may be said, in honour of our times,
That none now stand distinguish'd by their crimes.
If sin you must, take Nature for your guide;
Love has some soft excuse to sooth your pride.
Ye fair apostates from Love's ancient pow'r!
Can nothing ravish but a golden show'r ?
Can cards alone your glowing fancy seize?
Must Cupid learn to punt ere he can please?
When you're enamour'd of a lift or cast,
What can the preacher more to make us chaste?
Why must strong youths unmarry'd pine away;
They find no woman disengag'd---from play.
Why pine the marry'd ?---O severer fate!
They find from play no disengag'd---estate.
Flavia, at lovers false, untouch'd and hard,
Turns pale and trembles at a cruel card.
Nor Arria's Bible can secure her age;
Her threescore years are shuffling with her page,
While Death stands by but till the game is done,
To sweep that stake, in justice long his own:
Like old cards ting'd with sulphur she takes fire,
Or like snuffs sunk in sockets blazes higher.
Ye Gods! with new delights inspire the fair,
Or give us sons, and save us from despair.
Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close In my complaint, and brand your sins in prose: 560 Yet I believe as firmly as my creed,
In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed.
Our pride so great, our passion is so strong,
Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.
"This fellow's very odd."
When you chastise who would not kiss the rod ?
But I've a charm your anger shall control,
And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.
The charm begins! To yonder flood of light,
That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your sight. 570
What guardian pow'r o'erwhelms your souls with
Her deeds are precepts, her example law;
'Midst empires charms how Carolina's heart
Glows with the love of virtue and of art!
Her favour is diffus'd to that degree,
Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me.
When in my page, to balance num'rous faults,
Or godlike deeds were shown, or gen'rous thoughts,
She smil'd, industrious to be pleas'd, nor knew
From whom my pen the borrow'd lustre drew.
Thus the majestic mother of mankind,*
To her own charms most amiably blind,
On the green margin innocently stood,
And gaz'd indulgent on the crystal flood;
Survey'd the stranger in the painted wave,
And, smiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave.
TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.
Carmina tum melius, cum venerit Ipse, canemus.
On this last labour, this my closing strain,
Smile Walpole! or the Nine inspire in vain:
To thee 'tis due; that verse how justly thine,
Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole design?
That glory which thy counsels make so bright;
That glory which on thee reflects a light.
Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known!
To give and take a lustre from the throne.
Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;
The fountain is not foreign to the stream.
How all mankind will be surpris'd to see
This flood of British folly charg'd on thee!
Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons,
Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs ?
The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless,
For Caprice is the daughter of Success,
(A bad effect but from a pleasing cause!)
And gives our rulers undesign'd applause,
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of Peace.
While I survey the blessings of our isle,
Her arts triumphant in the royal smile,
'Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading sails in ev'ry sky,
The pleasing scene recalls my theme agen,
And shews the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword,
And burn to give mankind a single lord.
The follies past are of a private kind;
Their sphere is small, their mischief is confin'd;
But daring men there are (awake my Muse!
And raise thy verse!) who bolder frenzy chuse;
Who, stung by glory, rave, and bound away,
The world their field, and humankind their prey.
The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride,
With Rage and Terror stalking by his side,
Raves round the globe; he soars into a god!
Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod.
The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns,
And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains.
What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze!
What wasted countries! and what crimson seas!
With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows,
And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.
And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise
The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays?
Why want we then encomiums on the storm,
Or famine or volcano? they perform
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