Who teach the mind it's proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man,
Shall their profession e'er provoke disdain,
Who stand the foremost in the moral train,
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And strike the precept home upon the heart?

Yet, hapless Artist! tho' thy skill can raise The bursting peal of universal praise, Tho' at thy beck Applause delighted stands, And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands, Know, Fame awards thee but a partial breath! Not all thy talents brave the stroke of death. Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' Eternal Nature feel.

Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's share,
Relentless death untwists the mingled fame,
And sinks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muscles of the various face,

The mien that gave each sentence strength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind.

THE

CIT'S COUNTRY BOX,

1757.

Vos sapere & solos aio bene vivere, quorum, Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. HOR.

THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,

Now wishes for the rural shade,

And buckles to his one-horse chair,
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile!
And as they slowly jog together,

The Cit commends the road and weather;

While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees,
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration.

What signify the loads of wealth, Without that richest jewel, health? Excuse the fondness of a wife, Who doats upon your precious life! Such ceaseless toil, such constant care, Is more than human strength can bear. One may observe it in your face→→ Indeed, my dear, you break apace: And nothing can your health repair, But exercise and country air. Sir Traffic has a house, you know, About a mile from Cheney-Row; He's a good man, indeed 'tis true, But not so warm, my dear, as you: And folks are always apt to sneer— One would not be out-done my dear!

Sir Traffic's name so well apply'd Awak'd his brother merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost deference to his wife,

Confess'd her arguments had reason, And by th' approaching summer season, Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his Country Box.

Some three or four mile out of town, (An hour's ride will bring you down,) He fixes on his choice abode,

Not half a furlong from the road:
And so convenient does it lay,
The stages, pass it ev'ry day :
And then so snug, so mighty pretty,
To have an house so near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar,
You're set down at the very door.

Well then, suppose them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, scrubbing past, Hugging themselves in ease and clover, With all the fuss of moving over; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred! And wanton in my lady's head.

Well to be sure, it must be own'd,

It is a charming spot of ground;

So sweet a distance for a ride,

And all about so countrified!
"Twould come but to a trifling price
To make it quite a paradise;
I cannot bear those nasty rails,
Those ugly broken mouldy pales:
Suppose, my dear, instead of these,
We build a railing, all Chinese.
Although one hates to be expos'd;
"Tis dismal to be thus inclos'd;
One hardly any object sees-
I wish you'd fell those odious trees.
Objects continual passing by
Were something to amuse the eye,
But to be pent within the walls-
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house, beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While ev'ry trav❜ller in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze,
And pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry, that's Sir Thrifty's Country Seat.