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by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Adam Posed

Could our first father, at his toilsome plow,
Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow,
Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,
Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antic graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it posed that skill, which late assigned
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T'have guessed from what new element she came;
T'have hit the wav'ring form, or giv'n this thing a name.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

HOPE

 Do you believe, in what you see
do you believe in reality
do you believe in the sun that’s bright
do you believe in the stars in the night

Do you believe in the birds that fly
do you believe in clouds and the sky
do you believe in wind that flows
do you believe in moon that glows
do you believe in light

Do you believe the spoken word
do you believe the things you’ve heard
do you believe in the final answer
do you believe in the swirling dancer


Do you believe in sound and sight
do you believe in moments bright
do you believe in taste and touch
do you believe that much

Do you believe in the soul inside
do you believe in ecstasy and delight
do you believe in glory and god
do you believe in that thought

Do you believe in the sky above
do you believe in love 

Do you believe in the heaven and the earth 
do you believe in death and birth
do you believe in life

open your eyes with hope within
open the door, let light reach in
if you believe, then you'll win


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Three Songs

 Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,--
The wild waves whist--
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark! Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow.
Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! --from The Tempest Tell me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourishèd? Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes; With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy's knell: I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell! All.
Ding, dong, bell! --from The Merchant of Venice Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
-from The Tempest


More great poems below...

by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Tree

 I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart's home That they might do this wonder thing; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood That was rank folly to my head before.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

TO DEATH

 Thou bidst me come away,
And I'll no longer stay,
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years;
And to repent some crimes
Done in the present times;
And next, to take a bit
Of bread, and wine with it;
To don my robes of love,
Fit for the place above;
To gird my loins about
With charity throughout;
And so to travel hence
With feet of innocence;
These done, I'll only cry,
'God, mercy!' and so die.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Hope

 The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov'd; 
The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd: 
Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant, 
Which either Heav'n, or Paradise cou'd want.
Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin'd, And Cordial only to the Human Mind.
Receive it then, t'expel these mortal Cares, Nor wave a Med'cine, which thy God prepares.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia

 Eph.
What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew.
Ard.
'Tis to love, as I love You.
Eph.
This Account, so short (tho' kind) Suits not my enquiring Mind.
Therefore farther now repeat; What is Friendship when complete? Ard.
'Tis to share all Joy and Grief; 'Tis to lend all due Relief From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand; 'Tis to mortgage House and Land; For a Friend be sold a Slave; 'Tis to die upon a Grave, If a Friend therein do lie.
Eph.
This indeed, tho' carry'd high, This, tho' more than e'er was done Underneath the rolling Sun, This has all been said before.
Can ARDELIA say no more? Ard.
Words indeed no more can shew: But 'tis to love, as I love you.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Adam Posd

 Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin,
Cou'd he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen,
In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces, 
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;
How had it pos'd that Skill, which late assign'd
Just Appellations to Each several Kind!
A right Idea of the Sight to frame;
T'have guest from what New Element she came; 
T'have hit the wav'ring Form, or giv'n this Thing a Name.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Alcidor

 While Monarchs in stern Battle strove 
For proud Imperial Sway; 
Abandon'd to his milder Love, 
Within a silent peaceful Grove, 
Alcidor careless lay.
Some term'd it cold, unmanly Fear; Some, Nicety of Sense, That Drums and Trumpets cou'd not hear, The sullying Blasts of Powder bear, Or with foul Camps dispense.
A patient Martyr to their Scorn, And each ill-fashion'd Jest; The Youth, who but for Love was born, Remain'd, and thought it vast Return, To reign in Cloria's Breast.
But oh! a ruffling Soldier came In all the Pomp of War: The Gazettes long had spoke his Fame; Now Hautboys his Approach proclaim, And draw in Crouds from far.
Cloria unhappily wou'd gaze; And as he nearer drew, The Man of Feather and of Lace Stopp'd short, and with profound Amaze Took all her Charms to view.
A Bow, which from Campaigns he brought, And to his Holsters low, Herself, and the Spectators taught, That Her the fairest Nymph he thought, Of all that form'd the Row.
Next day, ere Phoebus cou'd be seen, Or any Gate unbarr'd; At hers, upon th' adjoining Green, From Ranks, with waving Flags between, Were soften'd Trumpets heard.
The Noon do's following Treats provide, In the Pavilion's Shade; The Neighborhood, and all beside, That will attend the amorous Pride, Are welcom'd with the Maid.
Poor Alcidor! thy Hopes are cross'd, Go perish on the Ground; Thy Sighs by stronger Notes are toss'd, Drove back, or in the Passage lost; Rich Wines thy Tears have drown'd.
In Women's Hearts, the softest Things Which Nature cou'd devise, Are yet some harsh, and jarring Strings, That, when loud Fame, or Profit rings, Will answer to the Noise.
Poor Alcidor! go Fight or Dye; Let thy fond Notions cease: Man was not made in Shades to lie, Or his full Bliss, at ease, enjoy, To Live, or Love in peace.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

On Myselfe

 Good Heav'n, I thank thee, since it was design'd
I shou'd be fram'd, but of the weaker kinde,
That yet, my Soul, is rescu'd from the Love
Of all those Trifles, which their Passions move.
Pleasures, and Praise, and Plenty haue with me But their just value.
If allow'd they be, Freely, and thankfully as much I tast, As will not reason, or Religion wast.
If they're deny'd, I on my selfe can Liue, And slight those aids, unequal chance does give.
When in the Sun, my wings can be display'd, And in retirement, I can bless the shade.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

An EPISTLE From A Gentleman To Madam Deshouliers

 URANIA, whom the Town admires, 
Whose Wit and Beauty share our Praise; 
This fair URANIA who inspires 
A thousand Joys a thousand ways, 
She, who cou'd with a Glance convey 
Favours, that had my Hopes outdone, 
Has lent me Money on that Day, 
Which our Acquaintance first begun.
Nor with the Happiness I taste, Let any jealous Doubts contend: Her Friendship is secure to last, Beginning where all others end.
And thou, known Cheat! upheld by Law, Thou Disappointer of the craving Mind, BASSETTE, who thy Original dost draw From Venice (by uncertain Seas confin'd); Author of Murmurs, and of Care, Of pleasing Hopes, concluding in Despair: To thee my strange Felicity I owe, From thy Oppression did this Succour flow.
Less had I gained, had'st thou propitious been, Who better by my Loss hast taught me how to Win.
Yet tell me, my transported Brain! (whose Pride this Benefit awakes) Know'st thou, what on this Chance depends? And are we not exalted thus in vain, Whilst we observe the Money which she lends, But not, alas! the Heart she takes, The fond Engagements, and the Ties Her fatal Bounty does impose, Who makes Reprisals, with her Eyes, For what her gen'rous Hand bestows? And tho' I quickly can return Those useful Pieces, which she gave; Can I again, or wou'd I have That which her Charms have from me borne? Yet let us quit th' obliging Score; And whilst we borrow'd Gold restore, Whilst readily we own the Debt, And Gratitude before her set In its approved and fairest Light; Let her effectually be taught By that instructive, harmless Slight, That also in her turn she ought (Repaying ev'ry tender Thought) Kindness with Kindness to requite.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Cupid And Folly

 CUPID, ere depriv'd of Sight, 
Young and apt for all Delight, 
Met with Folly on the way, 
As Idle and as fond of Play.
In gay Sports the time they pass; Now run, now wrestle on the Grass; Their painted Wings then nimbly ply, And ev'ry way for Mast'ry try: 'Till a Contest do's arise, Who has won th' appointed Prize.
Gentle Love refers the Case To the next, that comes in Place; Trusting to his flatt'ring Wiles, And softens the Dispute with Smiles.
But Folly, who no Temper knows, Words pursues with hotter Blows: 'Till the eyes of Love were lost, Which has such Pain to Mortals cost.
Venus hears his mournful Crys, And repeats 'em, in the Skys, To Jupiter in Council set, With Peers for the Occasion met; In her Arms the Boy she bears, Bathing him in falling Tears; And whilst his want of Eyes is shown, Secures the Judges by her Own.
Folly to the Board must come, And hear the Tryal and the Doom; Which Cytherea loudly prays May be as heavy as the Case: Which, when All was justly weigh'd, Cupid's Wings now useless made, That a staff, his Feet must guide, Which wou'd still be apt to slide; This Decree at last was read, That Love by Folly shou'd be lead.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Ardelia to Melancholy

 At last, my old inveterate foe,
No opposition shalt thou know.
Since I by struggling, can obtain Nothing, but encrease of pain, I will att last, no more do soe, Tho' I confesse, I have apply'd Sweet mirth, and musick, and have try'd A thousand other arts beside, To drive thee from my darken'd breast, Thou, who hast banish'd all my rest.
But, though sometimes, a short repreive they gave, Unable they, and far too weak, to save; All arts to quell, did but augment thy force, As rivers check'd, break with a wilder course.
Freindship, I to my heart have laid, Freindship, th' applauded sov'rain aid, And thought that charm so strong wou'd prove, As to compell thee, to remove; And to myself, I boasting said, Now I a conqu'rer sure shall be, The end of all my conflicts, see, And noble tryumph, wait on me; My dusky, sullen foe, will sure N'er this united charge endure.
But leaning on this reed, ev'n whilst I spoke It peirc'd my hand, and into peices broke.
Still, some new object, or new int'rest came And loos'd the bonds, and quite disolv'd the claim.
These failing, I invok'd a Muse, And Poetry wou'd often use, To guard me from thy Tyrant pow'r; And to oppose thee ev'ry hour New troops of fancy's, did I chuse.
Alas! in vain, for all agree To yeild me Captive up to thee, And heav'n, alone, can sett me free.
Thou, through my life, wilt with me goe, And make ye passage, sad, and slow.
All, that cou'd ere thy ill gott rule, invade, Their uselesse arms, before thy feet have laid; The Fort is thine, now ruin'd, all within, Whilst by decays without, thy Conquest too, is seen.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Fragment at Tunbridge-Wells

 FOR He, that made, must new create us,
Ere Seneca, or Epictetus, 
With all their serious Admonitions,
Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians.
The Heart's unruly Palpitation Will not be laid by a Quotation; Nor will the Spirits move the lighter For the most celebrated Writer.
Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions Will not be cur'd by Words, and Notions.
Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats, Which keep us from becoming Idiots.
At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking, Though 'tis the Antipodes to Thinking: Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit's flying, Such Stupefaction, when 'tis dying; Yet these, and not sententious Papers, Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

In Praise Of Writing Letters

 Blest be the Man! his Memory at least, 
Who found the Art, thus to unfold his Breast, 
And taught succeeding Times an easy way 
Their secret Thoughts by Letters to convey; 
To baffle Absence, and secure Delight, 
Which, till that Time, was limited to Sight.
The parting Farewel spoke, the last Adieu, The less'ning Distance past, then loss of View, The Friend was gone, which some kind Moments gave, And Absence separated, like the Grave.
The Wings of Love were tender too, till then No Quill, thence pull'd, was shap'd into a Pen, To send in Paper-sheets, from Town to Town, Words smooth was they, and softer than his Down.
O'er such he reign'd, whom Neighborhood had join'd, And hopt, from Bough to Bough, supported by the Wind.
When for a Wife the youthful Patriarch sent, The Camels, Jewels, and the Steward went, A wealthy Equipage, tho' grave and slow; But not a Line, that might the Lover shew.
The Rings and Bracelets woo'd her Hands and Arms; But had she known of melting Words, the Charms That under secret Seals in Ambush lie, To catch the Soul, when drawn into the Eye, The Fair Assyrian had not took this Guide, Nor her soft Heart in Chains of Pearl been ty'd.
Had these Conveyances been then in Date, Joseph had known his wretched Father's State, Before a Famine, which his Life pursues, Had sent his other Sons, to tell the News.
Oh! might I live to see an Art arise, As this to Thoughts, indulgent to the Eyes; That the dark Pow'rs of distance cou'd subdue, And make me See, as well as Talk to You; That tedious Miles, nor Tracts of Air might prove Bars to my Sight, and shadows to my Love! Yet were it granted, such unbounded Things Are wand'ring Wishes, born on Phancy's Wings, They'd stretch themselves beyond this happy Case, And ask an Art, to help us to Embrace.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Jealousy

 VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, 
That cannot help thee to retire! 
When such quick Flames Suspicion brings, 
As do the Heart about thee fire.
Still Swift to come, but when to go Thou shou'd'st be more–Alas! how Slow.
Lord of the World must surely be But thy bare Title at the most; Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee, And makes such Havock on thy Coast, As do's thy pleasant Land deface, Yet binds thee faster to the Place.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

La Passion Vaincue

 On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid 
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,) 
Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, 
And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain.
Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate.
And now to comply with that furious Desire, Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire, Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd, Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd, Why this Strife, Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life?


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Lifes Progress

 How gayly is at first begun 
Our Life's uncertain Race! 
Whilst yet that sprightly Morning Sun, 
With which we just set out to run 
Enlightens all the Place.
How smiling the World's Prospect lies How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the Prophet's Eyes, From Pisgah with a sweet Surprize, Did more inviting shew.
How promising's the Book of Fate, Till thoroughly understood! Whilst partial Hopes such Lots create, As may the youthful Fancy treat With all that's Great and Good.
How soft the first Ideas prove, Which wander through our Minds! How full the Joys, how free the Love, Which do's that early Season move; As Flow'rs the Western Winds! Our Sighs are then but Vernal Air; But April–drops our Tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows Fair, Whilst Beauty compensates our Care, And Youth each Vapour clears.
But oh! too soon, alas, we climb; Scarce feeling we ascend The gently rising Hill of Time, From whence with Grief we see that Prime, And all its Sweetness end.
The Die now cast, our Station known, Fond Expectation past; The Thorns, which former Days had sown, To Crops of late Repentance grown, Thro' which we toil at last.
Whilst ev'ry Care's a driving Harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded Smiles no more can charm, But ev'ry Tear's a Winter-Storm, And ev'ry Look's a Frown.
Till with succeeding Ills opprest, For Joys we hop'd to find; By Age too, rumpl'd and undrest, We gladly sinking down to rest, Leave following Crouds behind.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Moral Song

 Would we attain the happiest State, 
That is design'd us here; 
No Joy a Rapture must create, 
No Grief beget Despair.
No Injury fierce Anger raise, No Honour tempt to Pride; No vain Desires of empty Praise Must in the Soul abide.
No Charms of Youth, or Beauty move The constant, settl'd Breast: Who leaves a Passage free to Love, Shall let in, all the rest.
In such a Heart soft Peace will live, Where none of these abound; The greatest Blessing, Heav'n do's give, Or can on Earth be found.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Reformation

 A Gentleman, most wretched in his Lot, 
A wrangling and reproving Wife had got, 
Who, tho' she curb'd his Pleasures, and his Food, 
Call'd him My Dear, and did it for his Good, 
Ills to prevent; She of all Ills the worst, 
So wisely Froward, and so kindly Curst.
The Servants too experiment her Lungs, And find they've Breath to serve a thousand Tongues.
Nothing went on; for her eternal Clack Still rectifying, set all Matters back; Nor Town, nor Neighbours, nor the Court cou'd please, But furnish'd Matter for her sharp Disease.
To distant Plains at length he gets her down, With no Affairs to manage of her own; Hoping from that unactive State to find A calmer Habit, grown upon her Mind: But soon return'd he hears her at his Door, As noisy and tempestuous as before; Yet mildly ask'd, How she her Days had spent Amidst the Quiet of a sweet Content, Where Shepherds 'tend their Flocks, and Maids their Pails, And no harsh Mistress domineers, or rails? Not rail! she cries–Why, I that had no share In their Concerns, cou'd not the Trollops spare; But told 'em, they were Sluts–And for the Swains, My Name a Terror to them still remains; So often I reprov'd their slothful Faults, And with such Freedom told 'em all my Thoughts, That I no more amongst them cou'd reside.
Has then, alas! the Gentleman reply'd, One single Month so much their patience try'd? Where you by Day, and but at Seasons due, Cou'd with your Clamours their Defects pursue; How had they shrunk, and justly been afraid, Had they with me one Curtain Lecture heard! Yet enter Madam, and resume your Sway; Who can't Command, must silently Obey.
In secret here let endless Faults be found, Till, like Reformers who in States abound, You all to Ruin bring, and ev'ry Part confound.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Appology

 'Tis true I write and tell me by what Rule
I am alone forbid to play the fool
To follow through the Groves a wand'ring Muse
And fain'd Idea's for my pleasures chuse
Why shou'd it in my Pen be held a fault 
Whilst Mira paints her face, to paint a thought
Whilst Lamia to the manly Bumper flys
And borrow'd Spiritts sparkle in her Eyes
Why shou'd itt be in me a thing so vain
To heat with Poetry my colder Brain?
But I write ill and there-fore shou'd forbear
Does Flavia cease now at her fortieth year
In ev'ry Place to lett that face be seen
Which all the Town rejected at fifteen
Each Woman has her weaknesse; mind [sic] indeed
Is still to write tho' hopelesse to succeed
Nor to the Men is this so easy found
Ev'n in most Works with which the Witts abound
(So weak are all since our first breach with Heav'n)
Ther's lesse to be Applauded than forgiven.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Atheist And The Acorn

 Methinks this World is oddly made, 
And ev'ry thing's amiss, 
A dull presuming Atheist said, 
As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade; 
And instanced in this: 

Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 
A Pumpkin, large and round, 
Is held but by a little String, 
Which upwards cannot make it spring, 
Or bear it from the Ground.
Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small, So disproportion'd, grows; That, who with Sence surveys this All, This universal Casual Ball, Its ill Contrivance knows.
My better Judgment wou'd have hung That Weight upon a Tree, And left this Mast, thus slightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung, And small and feeble be.
No more the Caviller cou'd say, Nor farther Faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay, Fell down upon his Eye.
Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er, As punish'd for the Sin: Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more, Nor Scull had kept them in.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Bird and the Arras

 By neer resemblance see that Bird betray'd
Who takes the well wrought Arras for a shade
There hopes to pearch and with a chearfull Tune
O're-passe the scortchings of the sultry Noon.
But soon repuls'd by the obdurate scean How swift she turns but turns alas in vain That piece a Grove, this shews an ambient sky Where immitated Fowl their pinnions ply Seeming to mount in flight and aiming still more high.
All she outstrip's and with a moments pride Their understation silent does deride Till the dash'd Cealing strikes her to the ground No intercepting shrub to break the fall is found Recovering breath the window next she gaines Nor fears a stop from the transparent Panes.
But we degresse and leaue th' imprison'd wretch Now sinking low now on a loftyer stretch Flutt'ring in endless cercles of dismay Till some kind hand directs the certain way Which through the casement an escape affoards And leads to ample space the only Heav'n of Birds.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Cautious Lovers

 Silvia, let's from the Crowd retire; 
For, What to you and me 
(Who but each other do desire) 
Is all that here we see? 

Apart we'll live, tho' not alone; 
For, who alone can call 
Those, who in Desarts live with One, 
If in that One they've All? 

The World a vast Meander is, 
Where Hearts confus'dly stray; 
Where Few do hit, whilst Thousands miss 
The happy mutual Way: 

Where Hands are by stern Parents ty'd, 
Who oft, in Cupid's Scorn, 
Do for the widow'd State provide, 
Before that Love is born: 

Where some too soon themselves misplace; 
Then in Another find 
The only Temper, Wit, or Face, 
That cou'd affect their Mind.
Others (but oh! avert that Fate!) A well-chose Object change: Fly, Silvia, fly, ere 'tis too late; Fall'n Nature's prone to range.
And, tho' in heat of Love we swear More than perform we can; No Goddess, You, but Woman are, And I no more than Man.
Th' impatient Silvia heard thus long; Then with a Smile reply'd; Those Bands cou'd ne'er be very strong, Which Accidents divide.
Who e'er was mov'd yet to go down, By such o'er-cautious Fear; Or for one Lover left the Town, Who might have Numbers here? Your Heart, 'tis true, is worth them all, And still preferr'd the first; But since confess'd so apt to fall, 'Tis good to fear the worst.
In ancient History we meet A flying Nymph betray'd; Who, had she kept in fruitful Crete, New Conquest might have made.
And sure, as on the Beach she stood, To view the parting Sails; She curs'd her self, more than the Flood, Or the conspiring Gales.
False Theseus, since thy Vows are broke, May following Nymphs beware: Methinks I hear how thus she spoke, And will not trust too far.
In Love, in Play, in Trade, in War They best themselves acquit, Who, tho' their Int'rests shipwreckt are, Keep unreprov'd their Wit.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Dog And His Master

 NO better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door 
Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor; 
But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh, 
Nor let pretended Friends pass fearless by: 
For which reprov'd, as better Fed than Taught, 
He rightly thus expostulates the Fault.
To keep the House from Rascals was my Charge; The Task was great, and the Commission large.
Nor did your Worship e'er declare your Mind, That to the begging Crew it was confin'd; Who shrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee, Or turn up Eyes, till they're not seen, nor see.
To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth, And fairly stake their Necks against your Wealth, These are the known Delinquents of the Times, And Whips and Tyburn.
testify their Crimes.
But since to Me there was by Nature lent An exquisite Discerning by the Scent; I trace a Flatt'rer, when he fawns and leers, A rallying Wit, when he commends and jeers: The greedy Parasite I grudging note, Who praises the good Bits, that oil his Throat; I mark the Lady, you so fondly toast, That plays your Gold, when all her own is lost: The Knave, who fences your Estate by Law, Yet still reserves an undermining Flaw.
These and a thousand more, which I cou'd tell, Provoke my Growling, and offend my Smell.