February 3, 1785. No. 1015.

FORWARD, Janns, turn thy eyes,
     Future scenes in prospect view
Rising as the moments rise
     Which form the fleeting year anew.
Fresh beneath the sithe of time,

     Could the muse’s voice avail,
Joys shou’d spring and reach their prime
     Blooming ’ere the former fail, 
And every joy it’s tribute bring, 
To Britain and to Britain’s King.

Suns should warm the pregnant soil,
     Health in every breeze should blow;
Plenty crown the peasant’s toil,
     And shine upon his chearful brow.
Round the throne whilst duty waits,

     Duty join’d with filial love
Peace should triumph in our gates,
     And every distant fear remove;
’Till gratitude to heav’n should raise
The speaking eye, the song of praise.

February 10, 1785. No. 1016.

CANTILENIA.  

FUGIT ætas et facessit;
Forma decor deflorescit:
Falix calix, et amores 
Procul abigant mœrores:
Da basia, Chloe, vinum puer,

Dies it, præsenti fruar:
Nulla, nulla sit formido,
Quamvis cæcus sit Cupido,
Per mœandros et amores,
Palpat viam ad mærores.

Fugit ætas et facessit,
Forma decor deflorescit,
Da basia, Chloe, vinum puer, 
Dies it, præsenti fruar.
     Quebec, 4^th February, 1785.         D.F.—te

February 17, 1785. No. 1017.

CANTILENIA IMITATED.

TIME impatient flits away,
Charms of Beauty soon decay:
Love and Wine, true Foes to Grief,
For those Sorrows bring Relief:
Kiss, then Chloe, kiss my Lass;

Fill, my Boy, the sparkling Glass:
We’ll the present Hour employ,
And secure the flitting Joy;
Fear not, fear not, Cupid blind,
Tho’ he’s wanton he is kind:

Fear not then his pointed Dart,
Which gives Pleasure with the Smart;
Tho’ thro’ Mazes he will rove,
Yet he smooths the Way to Love;
Then tho’ Time should flit away,

Then tho’ Beauty should decay,
Kiss me Chloe,—kiss again,
For we will not love in vain;
We’ll not think what Time may bring,
But of Life enjoy the Spring;

While we thus our Time improve,
We shall live an Age to Love.
     Quebec, 12^th February, 1785.

February 17, 1785. No. 1017.

To D.D.

“Your Nonsense”—The Proof will you deign, Master Quixote?
Or lies it all snug in your blunt ipse dixit?
I fear should I wait till found Sense you indite,
I might wait long enough—so, I wish you good Night.
     Quebec, 7^th February, 1785.

February 24, 1785. No. 1018.

To T.D.

If you wait ’till on nonsense, I sense throw away,
You may wait long indeed—so I wish you good day.
                                                           D.D

P.S. Lest you should say I beg the question,       
Without discussion or digestion,
If with a proof you’ll not dispense,— 
Fix the criterion of sound sense.
Lies it in rhyming to no end,                   

Or words that to some purpose tend?
In my mind’s eye nought’s worth the printing,   
Without some moral or good hint in:                   
The test of sense, in this view lies, Sir,      
To make men better or the wiser.                 

To this tribunal bring your rhymes,    
What are they but insipid chimes.   
Where is the precept they inculcate?    
Such words might start from any dull pate. 
If triplets are a mark of sense,

I’ll rhyme you such to doomsday hence;
And teach a magpie to rehearse ’em
To as good purpose as you verse ’em.
From the Cacœthes scribendi, 
If your best reason can’t defend ye;

Why lose your time in criticisms?—
Give us some new-coin’d witticisms,
Of Cock or Bull some pleasant tale,
No matter what so ’tis not stale.
Continual harping on one string,

Discord or dullness must forth bring.
Of all men living Commentators,
the heaviest dullest are of praters.—
From lessons sage, your Muse we’ll spare,
Let her but help to conquer Care.