But should some swain more skilful than the rest,
Engrave his name upon this marble breast,

Not rolling ages could deface that name ;

Through all the storms of life 'tis still the same :

Though length of years with moss may shade the

ground,

Deep, though unseen, remains the secret wound.

TO THE

EARL OF MIDDLETON,

[From Ratisbon.]

BY

SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE.

SINCE love and verse, as well as wines,
Are briskest where the sun most shines,
'Tis something to lose some degrees,
Now age itself begins to freeze:
Yet this I patiently could bear,
If the rough Danube's Beauties were
But only two degrees less fair

Than the bright Nymphs of gentle Thames,
Who warm me hither with their beams:
Such power they have, they can dispense
Five hundred miles their influence.

But hunger forces men to eat,

Though no temptation 's in the meat.
How would the ogling sparks despise
The darling damsel of my eyes;

Should they behold her at a play,
As she's trick'd-up on holy-day;
When the whole family combine
For public pride to make her shine?
Her locks, which long before lay matted,
Are on this day comb'd out and platted:
A diamond bodkin in each tress,

The badges of her nobleness;
For every stone, as well as she,
Can boast an ancient pedigree.
These form'd the jewel erst did grace
The cap of the first Grave o' th' race;
Preferr'd by Graffin Marian
T'adorn the handle of her fan;
And, as by old record appears,
Worn since in Renigunda's years:
Now sparkling in the frokin's hair,
No rocket breaking in the air
Can with her starry head compare.
Such ropes of pearl her arms incumber,
She scarce can deal the cards at Ombre.
So many rings each finger freight,
They tremble with the mighty weight.
The like in England ne'er was seen,
Since Holbein drew Hal and his Queen.
But, after these fantastic flights,
The lustre's meaner than the lights.
The thing that bears this glittering pomp
Is but a tawdry ill-bred romp,

Whose brawny limbs and martial face
Proclaim her of the Gothic race,
More than the mangled pageantry
Of all the father's heraldry.

But there's another sort of creatures,
Whose ruddy look and grotesque features
Are so much out of nature's way,
You'd think them stamp'd on other clay;
No lawful daughters of old Adam.
'Mongst these behold a city madam,
With arms in mittins, head in muff,
A dapper cloak and reverend ruff:
No farce so pleasant as this maukin,
And the soft sound of High-dutch talking.
Here, unattended by the Graces,
The Queen of Love in a sad case is.

Nature, her active minister,

Neglects affairs, and will not stir;

Thinks it not worth the while to please,

But when she does it for her ease.

Ev'n I, her most devout adorer,

With wandering thoughts appear before her:

And, when I'm making an oblation,

Am fain to spur imagination

With some sham London inclination :
The bow is bent at German dame;
The arrow flies at English game.
Kindness, that can Indifference warm,
And blow that calm into a storm,

Has in the very tenderest hour

Over my gentleness a power,

True to my country-women's charms, When kiss'd and press'd in foreign arms.