And if fhe's brought to bed, 'tis ten to one,
He marks the forehead of her darling fon.
O fcene of horror, and of wild despair!
Why is the rich ATRIDES' fplendid heir
Conftrain'd to quit his antient lordly feat,
And hide his glories in a mean retreat ?
Why that drawn sword? And whence that dismal cry Why pale distraction thro' the family?
See my lord threaten, and my lady weep,
And trembling fervants from the tempeft creep.
Why that gay fon to diftant regions fent?
What fiends that daughter's deftin'd match prevent ?
Why the whole house in fudden ruin laid?
O nothing, but last night-my lady play'd.
But wanders not my Satire from her theme?
Is this too owing to the love of fame?
Though, now, your hearts on lucre are bestow'd,
'Twas, firft, a vain devotion to the mode.
Nor ceafe we here, fince 'tis a vice fo ftrong;
The torrent sweeps all womankind along.
This may be faid, in honour of our times,
That none now ftand distinguish'd by their crimes.
If fin you must, take nature for your guide;
Love has fome foft excufe to footh your pride :
Ye fair apoftates from love's antient pow'r !
Can nothing ravish but a golden show'r?
Can cards alone your glowing fancy feize ?
Muft CUPID learn to punt, ere he can please?
When you're enamour'd of a lift or caft,
What can the preacher more, to make us chafte ?
Why must strong youths unmarry'd pine away?
They find no woman difengag'd—from play.
Why pine the marry'd?-O feverer fate!
They find from play no difengag'd-eftate.
FLAVIA, at lovers falfe, untouch'd, and hard,
Turns pale, and trembles at a cruel card.
Nor ARRIA's bible can fecure her age;
Her threescore years are fhuffling with her page.
While death ftands by, but till the game is done,
To fweep that ftake, in justice, long his own;
Like old cards ting'd with fulphur, fhe takes fire;
Or, like fnuffs funk in fockets, blazes higher.
Ye gods! with new delights infpire the Fair;
Or give us fons, and fave us from despair.
Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, tradesmen, close
In my complaint, and brand your fins in profe:
Yet I believe, as firmly as my Creed,
In spite of all our wisdom, you'll proceed:
Our pride fo great, our paffion is fo ftrong,
Advice to right confirms us in the wrong.
I hear you cry, "This fellow's very odd."
When
you chaftife, who would not kifs the rod ? But I've a charm your anger shall controul, And turn your eyes with coldness on the vole.
The charm begins! To yonder flood of light, That bursts o'er gloomy Britain, turn your fight. What guardian pow'r o'erwhelms your fouls with awe? Her deeds are precepts, her example law; 'Midft empire's charms, how CAROLINA's heart Glows with the love of virtue, and of art?
Her favour is diffus'd to that degree,
Excess of goodness! it has dawn'd on me :
When in my page, to balance numerous faults,
Or godlike deeds were shown, or generous thoughts,
She fmil'd, induftrious to be pleas'd, nor knew
From whom my pen the borrow'd luftre drew.
* Thus the majestic mother of mankind,
To her own charms most amiably blind,
On the green margin innocently flood,
And gaz'd indulgent on the chryftal flood;
Survey'd the ftranger in the painted wave,
And, fmiling, prais'd the beauties which she gave.
SATIRE VII.
To the RIGHT HONOURABLE
Carmina tum melius, cum venerit IPSE, canemus.
N this laft labour, this my clofing strain, Smile, WALPOLE, or the Nine inspire in vain: To thee 'tis due; that verfe how justly thine, Where BRUNSWICK's glory crowns the whole design ? That glory, which thy counfels make fo bright; That glory, which on thee reflects a light. Illuftrious commerce, and but rarely known! To give, and take, a luftre from the throne. Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme The fountain is not foreign to the fiream. How all mankind will be furpriz'd, to fee This flood of British folly charg'd on thee! Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy fons,. Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs ?
The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless;
For caprice is the daughter of fuccefs,
(A bad effect, but from a pleafing cause !)
And gives our rulers undefign'd applause;
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.
While I furvey the bleffings of our ifle,
Her arts triumphant in the royal fmile,
Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading fails in every sky,
The pleafing scene recals my theme agen,
And fhews the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring fword,
And burn to give mankind a fingle lord.
The follies paft are of a private kind;
Their sphere is small; their mischief is confin'd:
But daring men there are (Awake, my muse,
And raise thy verfe!) who bolder frenzy chufe;
Who, ftung by glory, rave, and bound away;
The world their field, and humankind their
prey.
The Grecian chief, th' enthufiaft of his pride,
With rage and terror stalking by his fide,
Raves round the globe; he foars into a god!
Stand faft, Olympus! and fuftain his nod.
The peft divine in horrid grandeur reigns,
And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains.
What flaughter'd hofts! what cities in a blaze
What wafted countries! and what crimson feas!
With orphans tears his impious bowl o'erflows,.
And cries of kingdoms lull him to repofe.
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