Oh! shield me from his rage, celestial powers, This tyrant that embitters all my hours. Ah, love, you’ve poorly played the monarch’s part, You conquered, but you can’t defend my heart. So blessed was I, throughout the happy reign, I thought this monster banished from thy train; But you would raise him to support your throne, And now he claims your empire as his own: Or tell me, tyrants, have you both agreed, There where one reigns, the other shall succeed? _On Julia’s throwing a Snow-Ball._ Julia, young wanton, flung the gathered snow, Nor feared I burning from the watery blow: ’Tis cold, I cried; but, ah! too soon I found, Sent by that hand, it dealt a scorching wound. Resistless fair! we fly thy power in vain, Who turn’st to fiery darts the frozen rain. Burn, Julia, burn like me, and that desire With water which thou kindlest quench with fire. _To Zelinda._ The poet and the painter safely dare To form an image of the proudest fair: Your brighter charms, by lavish nature wrought, Transcend the painter’s skill, the poet’s thought. _Occasioned by seeing some verses on Cælia, written on a pane of Glass._ Well hast thou drawn, fond youth, in properest place, The short-lived beauties of false Cælia’s face. When words’ obscurities thy sense o’er-shade, The place gives light to what thou wouldst have said. Bright as this lucid glass her eyes now seem, Like this, breathed on by fell disease, grown dim. Like glass is every strongest vow she makes, Brittle as that, as easily she breaks; Such is her honour. Short her fame, we find, Which cracked, must perish by the first high wind. _On a Riding-House turned into a Chapel._ BY MR. FARQUHAR. A chapel of a riding-house is made, Thus we once more see Christ in manger laid, Where still we find the jockey trade supplied, The laymen bridled, and the clergy ride. _On Chloe._ Here Chloe lies, Whose once bright eyes Set all the world on fire: And not to be Ungrateful, she Did all the world admire. _Written extempore, on the Duke of Devonshire’s House at Chatsworth._ Qualiter in mediis quam non speraverat urbem, Attonitus, Venetam navita cernit aquis; Sic improviso emergens et montibus imis, Attollis sese Devoniana Domus. _And thus translated by_ COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ. Not sailors view with more astonished eyes, In open seas Venetian towers arise, Than from the mountains strangers, with delight, See unexpected Chatsworth charm the sight. * * * * * George came to the crown without striking a blow: Ah! quoth the Pretender, would I could do so. _On the Clare-market and other Orators._ To wonder now at Balaam’s ass, is weak: Is there a day that asses do not speak? _The Numskull._ You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home. _Sylvia._