Now with loud-applauding hand
See the rapt spectators stand:
Now you hear th' astonish'd throng
Joining in alternate song :

Now they shake their robes in praise :❤
Now in speechless wonder gaze:
While in whispers each explains
What thy mimic silence means;
And to show his approbation,
Labours at thy imitation.
Thou with gestures nice, exact,
Dost like Caramallus act:
Him thy all-expressive grace
Doth with true resemblance trace.
Pleased may e'en the wise, the old,
Thy dumb eloquence behold:
Such amusements to attend,
Gravity may well unbend.-
I, on public business bound,
Many cities have gone round;
Either Rome I've travell'd through,
Both the ancient and the new;

Yet in neither did I see

Aught that might be matched with thee.

Such thy charms, and such thy art;
Blest is he who wins thy heart!

EPISTLE XXVII.+ THE COXCOMB

CLEARCHUS TO AMYNANDER.

As just beneath a lady's eye,
A youth officiously pass'd by,
Another lady, standing near,

Jogg'd her, and whisper'd in her ear,
"Yon swain, by Beauty's queen 'tis true,

Walk'd by to be observed by you;

And really, on examination,

His figure merits observation.

His dress is very neatly laced,

And fashion'd with a pretty taste.

* Now they shake their robes, &c] This was a sign of the highest approbation among the ancients.

+ Epistle XXVII.] From a lady ridiculing the addresses of a self-suffi cient lover.

And then observe, his jetty hair
Is buckled with the nicest care
(For Cupid can transform, you know,
The greatest sloven to a beau).”
"That man," said t'other, "I detest,*
However shaped, however dress'd,
Who flatters his own charms too much,
And thinks we can't resist the touch.
This made him choose, and this alone,
The name of Philo for his own :
This gave the self-sufficient airs
Which in his haughty brow he bears.
I hate the lover who can dare
To be a rival to the fair:

Who, if she deign to bless his arms,
Thinks he repays her charms for charms.
The man who courts a lady so,
Courts only that the world may know
But hear me vex my stately swain,
It cannot fail to entertain :-
'A youth there is who frequent tries
With love my bosom to surprise;
In vain my court he daily haunts,
In vain his idle ditties chaunts ;-
Yet fears not to repeat his song,
Both every day, and all day long:
While I tormented hide my face,
And blush myself for his disgrace.'"

Thus with insulting words the fair
Mock'd her desponding lover's care:
And then, to fasten his devotion,
Contrived, with easy, careless motion,
A leg of most enchanting shape
Should from beneath her robe escape.

The poor Adonis heard, and view'd
Just as the lady wish'd he should:
And, "Oh! insulting maid," he cried,
"Continue still my flame to chide :
Not me thy bitter taunts approach,
The god of Love alone they touch :

• That man, &c.] This is a very lively description of an intriguing corcomb; and perhaps not inapplicable to some modern characters.

Nor he, I trust, will bear them long,
But choose an arrow sure and strong;
The shaft thy stubborn heart shall gore,
And thou in turn my love implore."
"That dreadful lot far distant be,"
She cried affectedly, "from me!
Go on, vain youth, persist to please
Your pride with such conceits as these;
And wait till your superior beauty
Compels my love-sick heart to sue t' ye;
And till avenging Cupid draws

His bow, to vanquish in your cause.
Meantime, still haunt my court in vain,
And chaunt, and watch, and chaunt again:
On Love's tempestuous billows tost,
Too weak to keep or quit your post ;
Forbidden aught to touch that's mine,
And left with hopeless cares to pine,
And not a kiss your toils repay-
Yet have not strength to get away."

EPISTLE XXVIII.* THE RIVAL FRIENDS.
NICOSTRATUS TO TIMOCRATES.

TYRANT o' the heart! inconstant, faithless boy!
Source of these tears-as once dear source of joy l—
Inhuman trifler! whose delusive smile

Charms to ensnare, and soothes but to beguile-
Hence! tyrant, I renounce thy sway.-And thou,
False goddess, who prepar'st the stripling's bow,
Whose skill marks out the soft, the yielding heart,
Guides the boy's arm, and barbs the madd'ning dart,-
Thou shalt no more my midnight vows receive,
To thee no more the votive fruits I'll give,
No more for thee the festive altar raise,
Nor ever tune another note of praise.

This I have done.-Witness, each sacred grove !
Where wand'ring lovers sing the maid they love;
Ye awful fanes! to this false goddess raised,
Fanes that have oft with my free incense blazed;

Epistle XXVIII.] From a lover, resigning his mistress to his friend.

And chiefly thou, sweet solitary bird,

Bear witness to my vows,-for thou hast heard;
And many a night hast braved the dewy wind,
To soothe, with thy soft notes, my pensive mind:
But when the churlish blast has hush'd thy lays,
Have I not filled the interval with praise-
With praise still varied to the Cyprian queen,
And sighs, the heart's best tribute, breathed between ;
Till slumb'ring Echo started from her cave,
Admiring at the late response she gave;

And thou, best warbler of the feather'd throng,
With double sweetness didst renew thy song.
-Nor were ye slow, ye gentle gales of night,
To catch such notes, and stop your silent flight,
Till on your dewy wings, with morrow's rays,
To Cypria's queen ye waft the song of praise.
-In vain officious gales ;-she heeds you not;
My vows are scorn'd, and all my gifts forgot:
A happier rival must her power defend ;-
And in that rival I have lost a friend !

Thee, then, my friend-if yet a wretch may claim
A last attention by that once dear name→→→
Thee I address:—the cause you must approve;—
I yield you-what I cannot cease to love.
Be thine the blissful lot, the nymph be thine :--
I yield my love-sure friendship may be mine.
Yet must no thought of me torment thy breast;-
Forget me, if my griefs disturb thy rest,

Whilst still I'll pray that thou may'st never know
The pangs of baffled love, or feel my woe.
But sure to thee, dear charming-fatal maid!
(For me thou'st charm'd, and me thou hast betray'd,)
This last request I need not recommend-
Forget the lover thou, as he the friend.
Bootless such charge! for ne'er did pity move
A heart that mock'd the suit of humble love.-
Yet in some thoughtful hour, if such can be,
Where Love, Timocrates, is join'd with thee,
In some lone pause of joy, when pleasure's pall,
And fancy broods o'er joys it can't recali,
Haply a thought of me, (for thou, my friend,
May'st then have taught thy stubborn heart to bend,)
A thought of him, whose passion was not weak,
May dash one ransient blush upon her cheek;

Haply a tear-(for I shall surely then
Be past all power to raise her scorn again)—
Haply, I say, one self-dried tear may fall:
One tear she'll give,-for whom I yielded all !
Then wanton on thy neck for comfort hang,
And soon forget the momentary pang;

Whilst thy fond arms-Oh down, my jealous soul !
What racking thoughts within my bosom roll!
How busy fancy kindles every vein,

Tears my burst heart, and fires my madd'ning brain.—
Hush'd be the ill-timed storm-for what hast thou,
Poor outcast wretch, to do with passion now?
I will be calm ;-'tis Reason's voice commands,
And injured Friendship shakes her recent bands.
I will be calm ;--but thou, sweet peace of mind,
That rock'd my pillow to the whistling wind;
Thou flatt'rer, Hope! thyself a cure for sorrow,
Who never show'd'st the wretch a sad to-morrow,
Thou coz'ner, ever whisp'ring at my ear
What vanity was ever pleased to hear-
Whither, ye faithless phantoms, whither flown !
-Alas! these tears bear witness ye are gone.
Return !-In vain the call! ye cannot find
One blissful seat within the sullen mind;
Ye cannot mix with Pride and Surly Care;
Ye cannot brood with Envy and Despair.

My life has lost its aim! that fatal fair
Was all its object, all its hope or care;
She was the goal to which my course was bent,
Where every wish, where every thought was sent;
A secret influence darted from her eyes,-
Each look, attraction! and herself the prize.
Concentred there, I lived for her alone,-
To make her glad, and to be blest, was one.

Her I have lost!-and can I blame this poor
Forsaken heart-sad heart that joys no more!
That faintly beats against my aching breast,
Conscious it wants the animating guest:
Then senseless droops, nor yields a sign of pain,
Save the sad sigh it breathes, to search in vain.

Adieu, my friend,-nor blame this sad adieu,—
Though sorrow guides my pen, it blames not you.