Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strength possest,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

I'll give but not the full-blown rose, Or rose-bud more in fashion :

Such short-lived offerings but disclose A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere, than civil :
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

EPITAPH

ON

DR PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPILOGUE

TO THE

COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser?
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking:
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue; The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery,

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses !

False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore:
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.