August 3, 1769. No. 240.

Augustus Britannicus: To his Son

Far from your sight you’ll drive the abject slave;
But raise the worthy, and reward the brave.
The noble patriot, who reveres the laws,
And dares to suffer in his country’s cause;
He, he alone, shall have his monarch’s trust,                                             5
And find it meritorious to be just.
The good, the virtuous, shall your favourites be,
And they shall gain applause who trust in thee.
Whilst honour, conscious honour, acts its part,
And nicely sways each motion of your heart;                                          10
Let still the public good your will controul;
Be that the glorious impress on your soul.
Let gentle pity touch your youthful breast,
To screen the weak, and succour the distress’d:
Let the sole justice of the cause prevail,                                                  15
And merit, tho’ in rags, weigh down the scale.
As good or ill from imitation springs,
And subjects wear the fashion of their kings;
Your own example should the foremost stand,
And widely spread its influence thro’ your land.                                      20
That monarch executes but half his trust,
Good in himself, who makes not others just;
Not aw’d by clamour, or of men afraid,
Let him command what’s right, and be obey’d.
Thus lesser pow’rs will lay their vices down,                                          25
And catch the glorious virtues of the crown.
   Of all the care that royalty attends,
Let your chief care be in the choice of friends;
Peaceful and easy be your gentle reign;
Refreshing as the show’rs which cool the plain;                                      30
Mild as soft evening-drops, which melt away;
Enrich the fields, and make the valleys gay:
Wide and diffusive let your favours fall,
A monarch, like the sun, should shine on all.

August 3, 1769. No. 240.

A Wish: by a Lady 

A Neat little box by the side of a hill,
At the bottom of which runs a murmuring rill,
The soil should be healthy, and temp’rate the air,
And, to add to my prospect, I’d have a parterre.
The sweet rose of Sharon my walks shou’d adorn,                                  5
Just under my window I’d fancy a lawn,
Where delicate shrubs shou’d be planted with taste,
And none of my ground be seen running to waste.
Instead of Italians, the Linnet and Thrush
Wou’d with harmony greet me from every bush;                                    10
Those gay feather’d songsters do rapture inspire!
What music so soft as the heav’nly choir?
My furniture elegant, simple and plain,
Not any-thing gaudy, expensive or vain;
My friends shou’d repose on a pillow of down,                                      15
Nor ever from me shou’d they meet with a frown.
A study replete with good authors I’d choose,
That, if serious or gay, might instruct or amuse;
No new-fashion’d novel, or gilded romance,
Shou’d there find a place, tho’ it travel’d from France.                           20
My table I’d cover with old English cheer,
No kickshaws, or luxury, shou’d be seen here,
I wou’d treat you with port, and a service of fruit,
But modern extravagance ne’er should take root.
If, to crown my felicity, Fortune wou’d lend                                           25
A sensible, sprightly, compassionate friend,
One free from suspicion!—if such cou’d be found!
He soon shou’d be master of this fairy ground.

August 3, 1769. No. 240.

On Reading the Platonic Wife

Plato, thou reason’st well.

Dear Sir! who is there can resist
Th’ Attractions of a Platonist?
A pure, refin’d, seraphic Wife!
Who leads a Sentimental Life!
O! could I such a Female find,                                                                 5
Who’d join with mine her kindred Mind,
Marriage should not in vain invite;
I’d venture boldly on the Rite:
Intrench’d against all carnal Evil,
Defy the Flesh, and dare the Devil:                                                         10
Leers, Billet-doux, and Assignations,
Horns, and a hundred such Vexations,
Should, in my Brain, ne’er breed a Riot,
But every Part of me be quiet:
"My Days all Pleasure, Nights all Ease;"                                                15
Time thus bestow’d would surely please.
This print, Sir! and receive the Thanks
Of ————— Your’s sincerely,
                                                              Spindle-Shanks.

August 10, 1769. No. 241.

A Tale

When all was hush’d profoundly calm,
     Ere birds or mortals rise,
Or Phœbus yet with rosy charms
     Had deck’d the Eastern skies,
An angry swain, by love provok’d,                                                          5
     Now in a verdant bow’r.
Against the Female race invok’d,
     By turns, each Heav’nly pow’r;
To thee, soft God of peace, he said,
     I last direct my pray’r—                                                                   10
Let not Lavina, faithless maid,
     Thy balmy blessings share;
Let her, by sad experience prove,
     This whirlwind in my soul,
A blooming prey to hapless love,                                                           15
     Which reason can’t contoul.
Revenge, thus amply on her sex
     The mischiefs of the first,
Through whose bewitch’d deluding tricks,
     The human race was curs’d:                                                             20
For now, too late, but now, alas!
     I plainly can perceive,
Though beauty wears an Angel’s face,
     Each woman is an Eve.
The swain here paus’d, with passion dumb,                                            25
     When lo! before his eyes,
He saw, bright as meridian sun,
     A lovely vision rise!
Cease thy invectives, guilty youth,
     The charming stranger cry’d—                                                         30
From Heav’n I come, my name is Truth,
     That long neglected guide;
Shall man, inconstant as the air,
     By choice and custom grown,
Thus, Satan-like, impeach the fair,                                                         35
     Of frailties all his own.
No—let himself pluck off the mask,
     By which his sex deceives,
And take the Adams first to task
     Ere he arraigns the Eves.                                                                  40
But thy perverse, mis-judging race,
     To censure ever prone,
The springs of others faults can trace,
     Blind only to their own.
Search then thy heart, correct that first,                                                  45
     The harmless females spare---
For take my word, were men but just,
     The girls wou’d be sincere.
In mine and virtue’s flow’ry vales,
     Thus teach thy sex to tread,                                                              50
So shall the fair reward their pains,
     And blessings crown thy head.
She ceas’d --- the conscious youth reprov’d,
     Shrunk from her daz’ling fight,
Whilst to her starry realms above,                                                          55
     The Goddess took her flight.

August 10, 1769. No. 241.

To a LADY very fearful of THUNDER

Why should my fairest shudder with surprise
When the red lightning glances through the skies?
Or why the virtuous soul be fill’d with dread
When thunder rattles o’er thy guiltless head!
No storms shoul’d e’er invade that peaceful breast                                   5
That is of concious innocence possess’d.
Let lightnings strike with fear the guilty soul,
And let him tremble when the thunders roll;
His troubled conscience echoes back the sound,
And in the awful noise his joys are drown’d;                                           10
His fleeting joys at once now disappear,
And leave the wretch a slave to servile fear;
The darkest prospects must his mind o’erspread;
Well may he shrink, and view it then with dread:
But thou, my fair! thy mind from guilt is free,                                           15
E’en envy’s dumb at the approach of thee;
View then the stormy and tempestuous scene
With calm composure, and with look serene.

August 10, 1769. No. 241.

An Ejaculation proper for the Times.

Wise Men suffer, good men grieve;
Knaves invent, and Fools believe:
Help, O Lord! send Aid unto us,
Or fools and Knaves will quite undo us.

August 17, 1769. No. 242.

Ode for His Majesty’s Birth-Day, June 4, 1769.

Patron of Arts! at length by thee
   Their home is fix’d: thy kind decree
   Has plac’d their Empire here.
No more, unheeded, shall they waste
Their treasures on the fickle taste                                                              5
   Of each fantasticYear.
Judgment shall frame each chaste design,
Nor e’er from Truth’s unerring line
   The sportive Artiste roam:
Whether the breathing bust he forms,                                                      10
With Nature’s tint the canvas warms,
Or swells, like Heaven’s high Arch, th’ imperial Dome.
   Fancy, the Wanderer, shall be taught
   To own severer laws:
Spite of her wily wanton play,                                                                15
Spite of those lovely errors, which betray
   Th’ enchanted soul to fond applause,
   Ev’n she, the Wanderer, should be taught
That nothing truly great was ever wrought
   Where Judgment was away.                                                                20
Through other twigs th’ Acanthus rose:
Th’ Idea charms! the Artist glows!
   But ’twas his Skill to please,
Which bade the graceful foliage spread
To crown the stately Column’s head                                                       25
   With dignity and ease.
When great Apelles, Pride of Greece,
Frown’d on the almost finish’d piece
   Despairing to suceed,
What tho’ the missile vengeance pass’d                                                  30
From his rash hand, the random cast
Might dash the foam, but Skill had form’d the Steed
Nor less the Phidian arts approve
   Labour, and patient Care,
Whate’er the skilful Artists trace,                                                            35
Laocoon’s pangs, or soft Antinous’ face.
   By Skill, with that Diviner Air,
   The Delian God does all but move;
’Twas Skill gave terrors to the front of Jove,
   To Venus every grace.                                                                        40
   —And shall each sacred Seat,
The Vales of Arno, and the Tuscan stream,
No more be visited with pilgrim feet?
No more on sweet Hymettus’ summits dream
   The sons of Albion? or below,                                                            45
   Where Ilyssus waters flow,
   Trace with awe the dear remains
Of mould’ring Urns, and mutilated Fanes?
   —Far be the thought. Each sacred feat,
   Each monument of ancient fame,                                                         50
Shall still be visited with pilgrim feet,
And Albion gladly own from whence she caught the flame.
   Still shall her studious youth repair,
   Beneath their King’s protecting Care,
      To ev’ry Clime which Art had known;                                              55
   And rich with Spoils from every Coast
   Return, ’till Albion learn to boast,
      An Athens of her own.