While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane 'Twixt _Querouaille_ and _Castlemaine_, In days that shocked JOHN EVELYN, My First Possessor fixed me in. In days of _Dutchmen_, and of frost, The narrow sea with JAMES I cross'd, Returning when once more began The Age of _Saturn_ and of ANNE. I am a part of all the past; I knew the GEORGES, first and last; I have been oft where else was none Save the great wig of ADDISON; And seen on shelves beneath me grope The little eager form of POPE. I lost the Third that owned me when French NOAILLES fled at Dettingen; The year JAMES WOLFE surpris'd Quebec, The Fourth in hunting broke his neck; The day that WILLIAM HOGARTH dy'd, The Fifth one found me in Cheapside. This was a _Scholar_, one of those Whose _Greek_ is sounder than their _hose_; He lov'd old Books and nappy ale, So liv'd at Streatham, next to THRALE. 'Twas there this stain of grease I boast Was made by Dr. JOHNSON'S toast. (He did it, as I think, for Spite; My Master call'd him _Jacobite_!) And now that I so long to-day Have rested _post discrimina_, Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair, Must I these travell'd bones inter In some _Collector's_ sepulchre! Must I be torn herefrom and thrown With _frontispiece_ and _colophon_! With vagrant _E's_, and _I's_, and _O's_, The spoil of plunder'd _Folios_! With scraps and snippets that to ME Are naught but _kitchen company_! Nay, rather, FRIEND, this favour grant me: Tear me at once; _but don't transplant me_. Cheltenham, _Sept. 31, 1792._ PALOMYDES. Him best in all the dim Arthuriad, Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,-- The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes, Nor joy he had. But, unloved ever, still must love the same, And riding ever through a lonely world, Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came, Against the danger desperately hurled, Crying her name. So I, who strove to You I may not earn, Methinks, am come unto so high a place, That though from hence I can but vainly yearn For that averted favour of your face, I shall not turn. No, I am come too high. Whate'er betide, To find the doubtful thing that fights with me, Toward the mountain tops I still shall ride, And cry your name in my extremity, As Palomyde, Until the issue come. Will it disclose No gift of grace, no pity made complete, After much labour done,--much war with woes? Will you deny me still in Heaven, my sweet;-- Ah, Death--who knows? ANDRE LE CHAPELAIN. (_Clerk of Love, 1170._) HIS PLAINT TO VENUS OF THE COMING YEARS.