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Now all unwelcome at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
He trembles at the sight.
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Will cheat him if he can.
And flings his head before,
And not to quit a score. "And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all ?” “All tight and well. And how do you,
Good Mr. What-d'ye-call ?”
Were e'er such hungry folk ?
It is no time to joke.
One spits upon the floor,
the cloth before. The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever ;
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins.
“Come, neighbours, we must wag-" The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
And one of storms of hail,
By maggots at the tail.
In pulpit none shall hear :
You sell it plaguy dear."
Or clergy made so fine ?
May kill a sound divine.
"Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum
Without the clowns that pay.
BONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.
On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of
Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.
COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes
hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's
peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.
Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea
Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.
Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet (f others' speech, but magic of thy own.
LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,
AUTHOR OF THE
Two Poets, (poets, by report,
Not oft so well agree)
Conspire to honour thee.
Who oft themselves have known
By labours of their own.
Though various, yet complete,
And learned as 'tis sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though, could our hearts repine
They would--they must at thine.
Of friendship's closest tie,
With an unjaundiced eye; 1 Alloding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.
And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,
And howsoever known,
Unworthy of his own.
ON MRS MONTAGUS FEATHER-HANGINGS.
The birds put off their every hue,
The peacock sends his heavenly dyes,