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Now has thy' keftrell courage fell;

And fairies, fince a lye you tell,

Are free to work thee woe.'

Then Will, who bears the wifpy fire
To trail the fwains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;

There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilome Edwin hung.

The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,

They fit, they drink, and eat;

The time with frolick mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
Till all the rout retreat.:

By this the ftars began to wink;

They fhriek, they fly, the tapers fink,
And down ydrops the knight:

For never spell by fairie laid

With strong enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay ;

Till up the welkin rofe the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er:

But wot ye well his harder lot!
His feely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin loft afore!

This tale a Sybil-nurfe ared:

She foftly stroak'd my youngling head,

And when the tale was done,

• Thus

Thus fome are born, my fon,' fhe cries, • With base impediments to rise,

And fome are born with none.

But virtue can itfelf advance

To what the favourite fools of chance.
By fortune feem defign'd;

• Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself fhake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind.'

THE FABLE OF JOTHAM,

TO THE BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

BY RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ

Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldeft that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made fince that time.

JUDGES, CHAP. IX.

ADDISON.

LD Plumb, who though bless'd in his Kentish retreat,

Still thrives by his oilfhop in Leadenhall Street,
With a Portugal merchant, a knight by creation,
From a borough in Cornwall receiv'd invitation.
Well affur'd of each vote, well equip'd from the Alley,
In quest of election-adventures they fally.

Tho' much they difcours'd, the long way to beguile,
Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the style,
Of the Irish, the stocks, and the lott'ry committee,

They came filent and tir'd into Exeter city.

Some books, pr'ythee, landlord, to pafs a dull hour! No nonsense of parfons, or methodists four;

No poetical stuff, a damn'd jingle of rhymes,

But fome pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times.'

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O Lord!' fays mine hoft, you may hunt the town round, I question if any fuch thing can be found :

• I never was afk'd for a book by a guest ;

And I'm fure I have all the great folk in the West. None of thefe, to my knowledge, e'er call'd for a book. But fee, Sir, the woman with fish, and the cook! • Here's the fatteft of carp; fhall we dress you a brace? • Would you have any foals, or a mullet or plaice?'

A place,' quoth the knight, we must have, to be fure,
But first let us see that our borough's fecure.

• We'll talk of the place when we've settled the poll:
⚫hey may drefs us for fupper the mullet and foal.
• But do you, my good landlord, look over your shelves,
For a book we must have, we're so tir'd of ourselves."
In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,
But the prayer-book and bible I bought for my wife.'
Well the bible muft do: but why don't you
take in
• Some monthly collection-the new Magazine?'
The bible was brought, and laid out on the table,
And open'd at Jotham's most appofite fable.

Sir Freeport began with this verse, tho' no rhyme-
The trees of the foreft went forth on a time,'
(To what purpose our candidates scarce could expect,
For it was not, they found, to tranfplant-but ELECT ;)
To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,

• But by both were refus'd, and their answer the fame :

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Quoth the olive," Shall I leave my fatnefs and oil

"For an unthankful office, a dignify'd toil ?"

"Shall I leave," quoth the fig-tree, "my sweetness and fruit, "To be envy'd or flav'd in fo vain a pursuit !"

Thus rebuff'd and furpriz'd they apply to the vine : He answer'd, "Shall I leave my grapes and my wine, (Wine, the fovereign cordial of god and of man!) “To be made or the tool or the head of a clan ?”

At laft, as it always falls out in a scramble,

The mob gave the cry for "A bramble! a bramble!

"A bramble

"A bramble for ever!" O chance unexpected!

But bramble prevail'd, and was duly elected.'

O! ho!' quoth the knight, with a look most profound, • Now I fee there's fome good in good books to be found. • I wish I had read this fame bible before;

Of long miles, at the leaft, 'twould have fav'd us fourscore. You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have staid, And myself might have tarry'd my wines to unlade. What have merchants to do from their business to ramble! Your electioneer-errant should still be a bramble." Thus ended at once the wife comment on Jotham, And our citizens jaunt to the borough of Gotham,

THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON

AND EUPHORMIUS.

BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.

EEM not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong,

DE

Ne thou, O man! who deal'ft the tort, misween
The equal gods, who Heaven's sky-manfions throng,
(Though viewlefs to the eyne they distant sheen)
Spectators reckless of our actions been.
Turning the volumes of grave fages old,
Where auncient faws in fable may be seen,
This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd ;
Which for enfample drad, my mufe shall here unfold.

What time Arcadia's flow'ret vallies fam'd,
Pelafgus, firft of monarchs old, obey'd;

There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he nam'd,
Unaw'd by confcience, of no gods afraid,

Ne

Ne juftice rul'd his heart, ne mercy sway'd. Some held him kin to that abhorred race,

Which heaven's high towers with mad emprize affay'd; And fome his cruel lynage did ytrace

From fell Erynnis join'd in Pluto's dire embrace.

But he, perdy, far other tale did feign,

And claim'd alliaunce with the Sifters nine;
And deem'd himself (what deems not pride fo vain')
The peerless paragon of wit divine:

Vaunting that every foe fhould rue it's tine.
Right dougnty wight! yet, footh, withouten smart,
All powerlefs fell the lofel's fhafts malign:
'Tis Virtue's arm to wield Wit's heavenly dart,
Point it's keen barb with force, and fend it to the heart,

One only impe he had, Paftora hight,

Whose fweet amenaunce pleas'd each fhepherd's eye:
Yet pleas'd the not base Lycon's evil sprite,
Tho' blame in her not Malice moten spy,

Clear, without fpot, as fummer's cloudlefs fky."
Hence poets feign'd, Lycëan Pan array'd

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In Lycon's form, enflam'd with paffion high,

• Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade,

And from the ftol'n embrace yfprong the heavenly maid:"

Thus fabling they. Meanwhile, the damfél fair
A fhepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain

She deffly pac'd along fo debonair;

Seem'd fhe as one of Dian's chosen train.

Full many a fond excuse he knew to feign,
In fweet converse to while with her the day,

Till love unwares his heedlefs heart did gain.
Nor dempt he, fimple wight, no mortal may
The blinded god, once harbour'd, when he lift, forefay.

Now

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