Cease to bid me not to sing. Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre: Hither, god of music, bring Food to feed the gentle fire; And on Pægasean wing Mount my soul enraptur'd higher. Some there are who'd curb the mind, And would blast the springing bays; All essays are vain, they'll find, Nought shall drown the muse's lays, 10 Nought shall curb a free-born mind, Nought shall damp Apollo's praise. G. EBBARE. [ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.] [1774.] What though no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust; What though no earthly thunders sound his name, Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame: One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess-- More should we mourn him, did we love him less. PARODY ON [BYROM'S] "MY TIME, OH YE MUSES." [Woodbridge, about 1774.] My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped Ere you or your whimsies got into my head; I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest, And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast. But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse, 'Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse. My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind, Could guide my pen gently to what I design'd. I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle, Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle. 10 But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves, And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves. * * * * * * * * * * * * * THE WISH. [Woodbridge, about 1774.] My Mira, shepherds, is as fair As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale, As sylphs who dwell in purest air, As fays who skim the dusky dale, As Venus was when Venus fled From watery Triton's oozy bed. My Mira, shepherds, has a voice As soft as Syrinx in her grove, As sweet as echo makes her choice, As mild as whispering virgin-love; As gentle as the winding stream Or fancy's song when poets dream. * * * * * * * * * INEBRIETY. [Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence.] The PREFACE. Presumption or Meanness are but too often the only articles to be discovered in a Preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance nothing in Favor of the following little _Poem_, did it not appear a Cruelty and disregard to send a first Production naked into the WORLD.