When simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele. Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventured on the town, And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor Crowne. There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little: 10 Like stunted, hide-bound trees that just have got Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits, his foes, but fools, his friends. So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid; Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree, And strangely liked for her simplicity: In a translated suit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own: But just endured the winter she began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk. SONG, BY A PERSON OF QUALITY, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733. 1 Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art. 2 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks. 3 Thus the Cyprian goddess, weeping, Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. 4 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. 5 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains. 6 Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. 7 Melancholy smooth Maeander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd. 8 Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate. ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT. 1 I know the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be silent, and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend. 2 Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, or gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible soft melancholy. 3 'Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear. ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM, COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS.