He got the Archbishop to write in his favor,

And when BILLY gets a beard, he swears he'll be his fhaver;

Then give him a place, oh dearest BILLY PITT O,
If he can't have a whole one, oh let it be a bit O!

III.

To all you young men, who are famous for changing, From party to party continually ranging,

I tell you the place of all places to breed in,

For maggots of corruption's the heart of BILLY
EDEN.

Then give him a place, oh dearest BILLY PITT O,
If he can't have a whole one, oh let it be a bit O!

THE LAUREA T.

AN ODE.

WARTON, I know you'll ne'er repine

That witlings carp at ev'ry line,

And with your lyricks quarrel. Alas! from party, fpite, or whim, Such ever is the fate of him

Who boasts the Royal laurel.

That laurel, once by Dryden worn! . But fince by many dunces borne,

VOL. II.

N

Each

Each rival dunce cry'd fie on! The boasted laurel was, they faid, No more than a poor p -fs-a-bed, At Court call'd Daun-de-Lion.

For fcenes of comedy renown'd,
And justly for his acting crown'd,
The prince of fops and folly;
Nor kings, nor poetry regarding,
And writing odes not worth one farthing,
Long liv'd the Laureat Colly.

Him Pope affail'd by legions back'd,
And often to his couplets tack'd,
The name of idle Cibber:

Yet Coll, unfkill'd in long and fhort,
Made in plain profe a smart retort,
To Pope a damn'd Grim-Gribber *.

Will. Whitehead bade the reign commence
Of birth-day odes and common sense;
And there his efforts refted:

True poetry, by genius fir'd,
Billy's cold bofom ne'er inspir'd;
For Bill was chicken-breafted.

Grim-Gribber.

See Tom's Law-Jargon in the Confcious

Lovers." I touched him to the quick about Grim-Gribber.

Warton,

Warton, on Greek and Roman base,
Rescued the laurel from difgrace,

With fame no foes fhall hinder.
Bleft with the gift of ev'ry tongue,
Themes Royal royally he fung,
A HORACE, and a PINDAR!

TO A LADY,

WITH THE SONNETS OF PETRARCH.

IN THE MANNER OF SPENCER.

BY PETER PINDAR.

O GENTILE nymph of Cornish lond the Queen,
Whom all our youth behold with rapt'rous love :
Whofe heart eclipfeth e'en thy beauty's fheen,
Read Petrarch's forrows, and with tears approve
A tear from thee, furpaffing all his fame,
Embalms with immortality his name.

At Petrarch's fate the heart with grief mote glow,
Who frequent woo'd the Fair but woo'd in vain :
Thy turtle eyen in ftreames will certes flow

At forrows, that for peerless Laura plain, When pale entomb'd her lovely limbs were laid, And redbréafts footh'd with ditties fweet her fhade.

Rafh, bard; what folly taught thine eyen to gaze On Her, who ne'er could bless thy longing arms? What dæmon urg'd thee mid'ft her beauty's blaze,

Bereft of imalleft hope, to win her charms?
Well did thine heart deferve fic mickle woes,
That loft in wild romaunce its dear repose.

Yet, Petrarch! like thyfelf, a Bard betray'd
By fimiles of beauty, wifdom's voice I flight;
Hopeless I glote upon as fair a maid,

As ever charm'd the golden eye of light.
Then let me blame no more thy lovelorn line,
Perchaunce Thy Laura mote compare with Mine !

AN OD F.

OCCASIONED BY MR. BA KS'S FINE STATUE OF ACHILLES.

BY THE SAME.

O THOU, who, 'midst the tuneful quire
On Pindus, ftrik'it the facred lyre,

AL.! why to SCULPTURL, Phoebus, sɔ unkind?

Say, when the Arts with fweetest smile

We

to Priain's favoured ifle,

Why the beauteous SCULPTURE left behind ?

Amidst Palmyra's defert drear

The Muse hath mark'd her lonely tear, And o'er the falling grandeur heard her figh: And oft where Athens (now no more!) With wonder fwell'd the world of yore, Hath feen the flighted wand'rer's penfive eye.

Barbaric race! to light the fair,

Who once the smiles of gods could share ; That proud with heroes, fages, prov'd her art! Enamour'd of her magic hand,

They faw, in Greecia's laurell'd land, Their fecond felves amid the marble start.

But lo! in fimple veft array'd,

I fee advance, the Attic Maid:

A Briton woes her to his native fhore:
Behold in Peleus' godlike fon,

Her glorious work of life begun,

That bids BRITANNIA envy GREECE no more.

EPITAPH ON A LADY.

BY THE SAME.

BENEATH this turf, in sweet repose,
The friend of all-a fair one lies-
Yet hence let Sorrow vent her woes,
Får hence let Pity pour her fighs.

Tho'