Ne'er would I wait till she arose
From her soft bed and sweet repose;
But, leaving thee, dull plant, by night
I'd meet my Phillis with delight.

Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford.

CLXXXVII.

THE SECRETARY.

WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right;
No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love.
For her neither visits nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.
This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign.
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive in my car in professional state.

So with Phia thro' Athens Pisistratus rode;
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse,
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose
In Holland half-drowned in interest and prose?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried

When The Hague and the present are both on my side;
And is it enough for the joys of the day

To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?

When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow,
As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow,

That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is
So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretáris.

Hague, 1696.

Matthew Prior.

CLXXXVIII.

TO MRS. CREWE.

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, enchanting, 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, O tell!
By what wonderful art, by what magical spell,
My heart is so fenced 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?
Is it reason? No, that my whole life will belie,

For who so at variance as reason and I?

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' versed in 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 the snares that catch wiser than me;

'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms;

For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms; As on suns in the winter with pleasure

we gaze,

But feel not their warmth, tho' their splendour we praise, So beauty our just admiration may claim,

But love, and love only, the heart can inflame!

Rt. Honble. Charles James Fox.

CLXXXIX.

EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD

GRANVILLE.

OFT you have ask'd me, Granville, why
Of late I heave the frequent sigh?
Why, moping, melancholy, low,
From supper, commons, wine, I go?
Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd;
By day no peace, by night no rest?
Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew
A tale so tender, and so true-

Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain,
My pen with freedom shall explain.

Say, Granville, do you not remember,
About the middle of November,
When Blenheim's hospitable lord
Received us at his cheerful board;
How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled,
Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild?
And mark'd you not, how many a glance
Across the table, shot by chance
From fair Eliza's graceful form,
Assail'd and took my heart by storm?
And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal,
I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal?
And how, when conversation's charms
Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms,

My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder,
When talking to her at the winder?
These facts premised, you can't but guess
The cause of my uneasiness,

For you have heard, as well as I,

That she'll be married speedily;

And then-my grief more plain to tell

Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,-farewell!
But still, tho' false the fleeting dream,

Indulge awhile the tender theme,
And hear, had fortune yet been kind,
How bright the prospect of the mind.
O! had I had it in my power
To wed her-with a suited dower-

And proudly bear the beauteous maid
To Saltrum's venerable shade,-

Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum,
Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,-
Then had I tasted bliss sincere,

And happy been from year to year.

How changed this scene! for now, my Granville,
Another match is on the anvil.

And I, a widow'd dove, complain,
And feel no refuge from my pain-
Save that of pitying Spencer's sister,
Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister.

The Rt. Honble. George Canning.

CXC.

'TIS late, and I must haste away,
My usual hour of rest is near-
And do you press me, youths, to stay--
To stay and revel longer here?

Then give me back the scorn of care
Which spirits light in health allow,
And give me back the dark brown hair
Which curl'd upon my even brow.

And give me back the sportive jest

Which once could midnight hours beguile; The life that bounded in my breast,

And joyous youth's becoming smile :

And give me back the fervid soul

Which love inflamed with strange delight, When erst I sorrow'd o'er the bowl

At Chloe's coy and wanton flight.

'Tis late, and I must haste away,
My usual hour of rest is near-
But give me these, and I will stay--
Will stay till noon, and revel here!

William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne.

CXCI.

AN ODE TO THE EARL OF BATH.

GREAT Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er,
The Tories trust your word no more,
The Whigs no longer fear you;
Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd,
No crowd of coaches fills your yard,
And scarce a soul comes near you.

Few now aspire to your good graces,
Scarce any sue to you for places,
Or come with their petition,
To tell how well they have deserved,
How long, how steadily they starved
For you, in opposition.

Expect to see that tribe no more,
Since all mankind perceive that power
Is lodged in other hands:
Sooner to Carteret now they'll go,
Or even (tho' that's excessive low)
To Wilmington or Sandys'.

With your obedient wife retire,
And sitting silent by the fire,
A sullen tête-à-tête,

Think over all you've done or said,

And curse the hour that you were made

Unprofitably great.

With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast,
Reflect on all your actions past

With sorrow and contrition :
And there enjoy the thoughts that rise
From disappointed avarice,

From frustrated ambition.

There soon you'll loudly, but in vain,
Of your deserting friends complain,
That visit you no more:

For in this country, 'tis a truth,
As known, as that love follows youth,
That friendship follows power.