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In fhort, fo well his part he play'd,
The waiters took him for a peer;
And ev'n fome great ones whisp'ring faid
He was no vulgar foreigner.

Whate'er he was, he fwept the board,

Won every bett, and every game;

Strip'd even the Rooks, who ftampt and roar'd,
And wonder'd how the devil it came!
He wonder'd too, and thought it hard;
But found at laft this great command
Was owing to one fav'rite card,

Which ftill brought luck into his hand.
The four of fpades; whene'er he saw

Its fable spots, he laugh'd at rules,
Took odds beyond the gaming law,

And Hoyle and Philidor were fools.
But now, for now 'twas time to go,
What gratitude fhall he express?
And what peculiar boon bestow
Upon the cause of his fuccefs?
Suppose, for something must be done,
On Juno's felf he cou'd prevail
To pick the pips out, one by one,

And stick them in her peacock's tail.
Shou'd Pallas have it, was a doubt,

To twift her filk, or range her pins ; Or fhould the Mufes cut it out,

For bridges to their violins.

Το

To Venus fhould the prize be given,
Superior beauty's juft reward,

And 'gainst the next great rout in heaven
Be fent her for a message card.
Or hold-by Jove, a lucky hit!
Your goddeffes are arrant farces;
Go, carry it to Mrs.

And bid her fill it full of verses.

The Je ne fcai Quoi. A S O N G.

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'Tis not her face which love creates, For there no graces revel;

'Tis not her shape, for there the fates

Have rather been uncivil.

III.

"Tis not her air, for fure in that

There's nothing more than common;

And all her fenfe is only chat,

Like any other woman.

- Her

IV.

Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm-
'Twas both perhaps, or neither;

In short, 'twas that provoking charm
Of CELIA altogether.

An

O DE

On a distant Profpect of

ETON

COLLEGE.

YE

By Mr. GRAY.

E diftant fpires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watʼry glade,

Where grateful science still adores
Her HENRY's holy fhade;

And ye that from the stately brow

Of WINDSOR'S heights th' expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whofe turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His filver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleafing fhade,

Ah fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood ftray'd,

A ftranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary blifs beftow,

As

As waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they feem to footh,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a fecond fpring.

Say, father THAMES, for thou haft feen

Full many a sprightly race

Difporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arms thy glaffy wave ?
The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny fucceed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While fome on earnest business bent

Their murm'ring labours ply,

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint To fweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry:
Still as they run, they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing when poffefs'd;
The tear forgot as foon as fhed,
The funshine of the breast,

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Theirs buxom health of rofy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,
And lively chear of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alafs, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No fenfe have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day:

Yet fee how all around 'em wait

The minifters of human fate,

And black misfortune's baleful train!
Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand,
To feize their prey the murth'rous band!
Ah, fhew them they are men!

These fhall the fury paffions tear,

The vultures of the mind,

Difdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that fculks behind;

Or pineing love fhall wafte their youth,
Or jealoufy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim vifag'd comfortless despair,
And forrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter fcorn a facrifice,

And grinning infamy;

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