Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face? / Thy Cheek all on Fire, and Thy Hair all uncurl'd: / Pr'ythee quit this Caprice; and (as old Falstaf says) / Let Us e'en talk a little like Folks of This World. / How can'st Thou presume, Thou hast leave to destroy / The Beauties, which Venus but lent to Thy keeping? / Those Looks were design'd to inspire Love and Joy: / More ord'nary Eyes may serve People for weeping. / To be vext at a Trifle or two that I writ, / Your Judgment at once, and my Passion You wrong: / You take that for Fact, which will scarce be found Wit: / Odd's Life! must One swear to the Truth of a Song? / What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shews / The Diff'rence there is betwixt Nature and Art: / I court others in Verse; but I love Thee in Prose: / And They have my Whimsies; but Thou hast my Heart. / The God of us Verse-men (You know Child) the Sun, / How after his Journeys He sets up his Rest: / If at Morning o'er Earth 'tis his Fancy to run; / At Night he reclines on his Thetis's Breast. / So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all Day; / To Thee my Delight in the Evening I come: / No Matter what Beauties I saw in my Way: / They were but my Visits; but Thou art my Home. / Then finish, Dear Cloe, this Pastoral War; / And let us like Horace and Lydia agree: / For Thou art a Girl as much brighter than Her, / As He was a Poet sublimer than Me.

Fire, Water, Woman, are Man's Ruin; / Says wise Professor Vander Bruin. / By Flames a House I hir'd was lost / Last Year: and I must pay the Cost. / This Spring the Rains o'erflow'd my Ground: / And my best Flanders Mare was drown'd. / A Slave I am to Clara's Eyes: / The Gipsey knows her Pow'r, and flies. / Fire, Water, Woman, are My Ruin: / And great Thy Wisdom, Vander Bruin.

When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, / Flora vouchsafed the growing works to view; / Finding the painter's science at a stand, / The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand, / And finishing the piece, she smiling said, / Behold one work of mine that ne'er shall fade.

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, / Let this my First Epistle beg ye, / At dawn of morn, and close of even, / To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. / In double duty say your prayer: / Our Father first, then Notre Pere. / And, dearest child, along the day, / In every thing you do and say, / Obey and please my lord and lady, / So God shall love and angels aid ye. / If to these precepts you attend, / No second letter need I send, / And so I rest your constant friend.

Since hired for life, thy servile Muse must sing / Successive conquests and a glorious King; / Must of a man immortal vainly boast, / And bring him laurels whatsoe'er they cost, / What turn wilt thou employ, what colours lay, / On the event of that superior day, / In which one English subject's prosperous hand / (So Jove did will, so Anna did command) / Broke the proud column of thy master's praise, / Which sixty winters had conspired to raise? / From the lost field a hundred standards brought / Must be the work of Chance, and Fortune's fault. / Bavaria's stars must be accused, which shone, / That fatal day the mighty work was done, / With rays oblique upon the Gallic sun. / Some demon envying France misled the sight, / And Mars mistook, though Louis order'd right. / When thy young Muse invoked the tuneful Nine, / To say how Louis did not pass the Rhine, / What work had we with Wageninghen, Arnheim, / Places that could not be reduced to rhyme? / And though the poet made his last efforts, / Wurts, who could mention in heroic, Wurts? / But, tell me, hast thou reason to complain / Of the rough triumphs of the last campaign? / The Danube rescued and the Empire saved, / Say, is the majesty of verse retrieved? / And would it prejudice thy softer vein / To sing the princes Louis and Eugene? / Is it too hard in happy verse to place / The Vans and Vanders of the Rhine and Maese? / Her warriors Anna sends from Tweed and Thames, / That France may fall by more harmonious names. / Canst thou not Hamilton or Lumley bear? / Would Ingoldsby or Palmes offend thy ear? / And is there not a sound in Marlbro's name / Which thou and all thy brethren ought to claim, / Sacred to verse, and sure of endless fame? / Cutts is in metre something harsh to read; / Place me the valiant Gouram in his stead; / Let the intention make the number good; / Let generous Sylvius speak for honest Wood, / And though rough Churchill scarce in verse will stand, / So as to have one rhyme at his command. / With ease the bard reciting Blenheim's plain, / May close the verse, remembering but the Dane. / I grant, old friend, old foe, (for such we are / Alternate as the chance of peace and war) / That we poetic folks, who must restrain / Our measured sayings in an equal chain, / Have troubles utterly unknown to those / Who let their fancy loose in rambling prose. / For instance, now, how hard is it for me / To make my matter and my my verse agree? / In one great day, on Hochstets fatal plain, / French and Bavarians twenty thousand slain; / Push'd through the Danube to the shores of Styx / Squadrons eighteen, battalions twenty-six; / Officers captive made, and private men, / Of these twelve hundred, of those thousands ten; / Tents, ammunition, colours, carriages, / Cannons, and kettle-drums, sweet numbers these / But is it thus you English bards compose? / With Runic lays thus tag insipid prose? / And when you should your hero's deeds rehearse / Give us a commissary's list in verse? / Why, faith, Despreaux, there's sense in what you say; / I told you where my difficulty lay: / So vast, so numerous, were great Blenheim's spoils, / They scorn the bounds of verse, and mock the muse's toils. / To make the rough recital aptly chime, / Or bring the sum of Gallia's loss to rhyme, / 'Tis mighty hard: what poet would essay / To count the streamers of my Lord Mayor's day? / To number all the several dishes dress'd / By honest Lamb last coronation-feast? / Or make arithmetic and epic meet, / And Newton's thoughts in Dryden's style repeat? / O Poet, had it been Apollo's will / That I had shared a portion of thy skill; / Had this poor breast received the heavenly beam, / Or could I hope my verse might reach my theme; / Yet, Boileau, yet the labouring muse should strive / Beneath the shades of Marlbro's wreaths to live; / Should call aspiring gods to bless her choice, / And to their favourite's strain exalt her voice, / Arms and a Queen to sing, who, great and good, / From peaceful Thames to Danube's wondering flood, / Sent forth the terror of her high commands, / To save the nations from invading hands, / To prop fair Liberty's declining cause, / And fix the jarring world with equal laws. / The queen should sit in Windsor's sacred grove / Attended by the gods of War and Love; / Both should with equal zeal her smiles implore, / To fix her joys, or to extend her Power. / Sudden the Nymphs and Tritons should appear / And as great Anna smiles dispel their fear; / With active dance should her observance claim: / With vocal shell should sound her happy name; / Their master Thames should leave the neigh'bring shore / By his strong anchor known and silver oar; / Should lay his ensigns at his sovereign's feet, / And audience mild with humble grace entreat. / To her, his dear defence, she should complain, / That whilst he blesses her indulgent reign, / Whilst further seas are by his fleets survey'd, / And on his happy banks each India laid, / His brethren Maese, and Waal, and Rhine, and Saar, / Feel the hard burden of oppressive war; / That Danube scarce retains his rightful course / Against two rebel armies' neighbouring force; / And all must weep, sad captive to the Seine, / Unless unchain'd and

As Cloe came into the Room t'other Day, / I peevish began; Where so long cou'd You stay? / In your Life-time You never regarded your Hour: / You promis'd at Two; and (pray look Child) 'tis Four. / A Lady's Watch needs neither Figures nor Wheels: / 'Tis enough, that 'tis loaded with Baubles and Seals. / A Temper so heedless no Mortal can bear / Thus far I went on with a resolute Air. / Lord bless Me! said She; let a Body but speak: / Here's an ugly hard Rose-Bud fall'n into my Neck: / It has hurt Me, and vext Me to such a Degree / See here; for You never believe Me; pray see, / On the left Side my Breast what a Mark it has made. / So saying, her Bosom She careless display'd. / That Seat of Delight I with Wonder survey'd; / And forgot ev'ry Word I design'd to have said.

In awful pomp and melancholy state, / See settled Reason on the judgement-seat; / Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear, / And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care; / Far from the throne the trembling Pleasures stand, / Chain'd up or exiled by her stern command. / Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen, / Till happy chance reverts the cruel scene; / And apish Folly, with her wild resort / Of wit and jest, disturbs the solemn court. / See the fantastic Minstrelsy advance / To breathe the song and animate the dance. / Bless'd the usurper! happy the surprise! / Her mimic postures catch our eager eyes; / Her jingling bells affect our captive ear, / And in the sights we see and sounds we hear, / Against our judgement she our sense employs, / The laws of troubled reason she drestroys, / And in their place rejoices to indite / Wild schemes of mirth and plans of loose delight.

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: / His spouse is in despair; / With frequent cries, and mutual sighs, / They both express their care. / "A different cause," says Parson Sly, / "The same effect may give: / Poor Lubin fears that he may die; / His wife, that he may live."

Quoth Richard in jest looking wistly at Nelly, / Methinks child you seem something round in the belly. / Nell answer'd him snappishly, how can that be, / When my husband has been more than two years at sea? / Thy husband! quoth Dick, why that matter was carried / Most secretly, Nell; I ne'er thought thou wert married.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop / Thy head into a tin-man's shop? / There, Thomas, didst thou never see / ('Tis but by way of simile) / A squirrel spend his little rage / In jumping round a rolling cage? / The cage, as either side turn'd up, / Striking a ring of bells a-top? / Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, / The foolish creature thinks he climbs: / But here or there, turn wood or wire, / He never gets two inches higher. / So fares it with those merry blades, / That frisk it under Pindus' shades. / In noble songs, and lofty odes, / They tread on stars, and talk with gods; / Still dancing in an airy round, / Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound; / Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, / Always aspiring, always low.