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With simile to illustrate it;
But, as too much obscures the sight,
As often as too little light,

We have our similes cut short,

For matters of more grave import.

That Matthew's numbers run with ease
Each man of common sense agrees;
All men of common sense allow
That Robert's lines are easy too;

Where then the preference shall we place,
Or how do justice in this case?

"Matthew," says Fame, "with endless pains
Smoothed and refined the meanest strains,
Nor suffered one ill-chosen rhyme
To escape him at the idlest time;
And thus o'er all a lustre cast,

That while the language lives shall last."
"An't please your ladyship," quoth I,
(For 'tis my business to reply,)

"Sure so much labour, so much toil,
Bespeak at least a stubborn soil.

Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed

Who both write well and write full speed;

Who throw their Helicon about

As freely as a conduit spout!

Friend Robert thus, like chien sçavant,

Lets fall a poem en passant,

Nor needs his genuine ore refine;

'Tis ready polished from the mine."

TO JOSEPH HILL

IF I write not to you
As I gladly would do

To a Man of your Mettle and Sense,
'Tis a Fault I must own

For which I'll attone

When I take my Departure from hence.

To tell you the Truth

I'm a queer kind of Youth,

And I care not if all the world knows it;
Whether Sloven or Beau,

In Square, Alley, or Row,

At Whitehall, in the Court or the Closet.

Having written thus much
In Honest high Dutch,

I must now take a nobler stile up:
Give my Fancy a prick,

My Invention a Flick,

And my genius a pretty smart Fillip.

For the Bus'ness in Hand
You are to understand,

Is indeed neither trifling nor small :
But which you may transact
If your scull is not crackt,

As well as the best of them all.

And so may your Dear Wife

Be the Joy of your Life,

And of all our brave Troops the Commandress,
As you shall convey

What herein I say

To the very fair Lady, my Laundress.

That to Town I shall Trot

(No I Lie, I shall not,

For to Town I shall Jog in the stage)
On October the Twentieth,
For my Father consenteth
To make me the Flower of the Age.

So bid her prepare

Every Table and Chair,

And warm well my Bed by the Fire,
And if this be not done

I shall break her Back bone

As sure as I ever come nigh her.

I am Jovial and Merry,

Have writ till I'm weary,

Am become, with a great deal of Talking, hoarse;

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OF HIMSELF

WILLIAM was once a bashful youth;
His modesty was such,

That one might say (to say the truth)
He rather had too much.

Some said that it was want of sense,
And others want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence,)
While others could not bear it.

But some a different notion had,
And, at each other winking,
Observed that, though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.

Howe'er, it happened, by degrees,
He mended and grew perter;
In company was more at ease,
And dressed a little smarter;

Nay, now and then would look quite gay,
As other people do ;

And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.

He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes ;

So that there was, or seemed to be,
No fear of a relapse.

The women said, who thought him rough
But now no longer foolish,

"The creature may do well enough, But wants a deal of polish."

At length, improved from head to heel, 'Twere scarce too much to say,

No dancing bear was so genteel,

Or half so dégagé.

Now that a miracle so strange

May not in vain be shown,

Let the dear maid who wrought the change

E'en claim him for her own.

TO DELIA

AN APOLOGY FOR NOT SHOWING HER WHAT I HAD WROTE

DID not my Muse (what can she less?)
Perceive her own unworthiness,

Could she by some well-chosen theme
But hope to merit your esteem,
She would not thus conceal her lays,
Ambitious to deserve your praise.
But should my Delia take offence,
And frown on her impertinence,
In silence, sorrowing and forlorn,
Would the despairing trifler mourn,
Curse her ill-tuned, unpleasing lute,
Then sigh and sit for ever mute.
In secret therefore let her play,
Squandering her idle notes away,
In secret as she chants along,
Cheerful and careless in her song ;
Nor heeds she whether harsh or clear,
Free from each terror, every fear,
From that, of all most dreaded, free,
The terror of offending Thee.
Catfield, July 1752.

At the same place

DELIA, the unkindest girl on earth,
When I besought the fair,
That favour of intrinsic worth,
A ringlet of her hair,

Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request,
For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.

Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,

I sought it merely to defraud

The spoiler of his prey.

Yet when its sister locks shall fade,
As quickly fade they must,
When all their beauties are decayed,
Their gloss, their colour, lost-

Ah then! if haply to my share
Some slender pittance fall,
If I but gain one single hair,

Nor age usurp them all ;

When you behold it still as sleek,
As lovely to the view,

As when it left thy snowy neck,—
That Eden where it grew,—

Then shall my Delia's self declare
That I professed the truth,
And have preserved my little share
In everlasting youth.

At Catfield

THIS evening, Delia, you and I
Have managed most delightfully,
For with a frown we parted;
Having contrived some trifle that
We both may be much troubled at,
And sadly disconcerted.

Yet, well as each performed their part, We might perceive it was but art; And that we both intended

To sacrifice a little ease;

For all such petty flaws as these

Are made but to be mended.

You knew, dissembler! all the while,
How sweet it was to reconcile
After this heavy pelt;

That we should gain by this allay

When next we met, and laugh away

The care we never felt.

Happy! when we but seek to endure A little pain, then find a cure

By double joy requited;

For friendship, like a severed bone,
Improves and gains a stronger tone
When aptly reunited.

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