In behalf of the Nofe, it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he faid, will undoubtedly find
That the Nofe has had spectacles always in wear,
Which amounts to poffeffion time out of mind.
Then holding the spectacles up to the court-
Your lordship obferves they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the Nofe is, in fhort,
Defign'd to fit close to it, juft like a faddle.
Again, would your lordship a moment, fuppofe
('Tis a cafe that has happen'd, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who wou'd or who cou'd wear spectacles then ?
VI.
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows
With a reas'ning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his fide, as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes,
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wife.
VIII.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave folemn tone,
Decifive and clear without one if or but-
That whenever the Nofe put his spectacles on
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes fhould be fhut.
The following elegant Ode (from the Gentleman's Magazine) is faid to be the production of a Gentleman well known in the political World, who has long been defervedly admired for the happiest vein of wit and bumour, and is not lefs diftinguished by his various and extenfive knowledge in almost every branch of literature and Science.
HILST you illumine Shakespeare's page,
And dare the future critic's rage,
Or on the paft refine,
many an eve I penfive fit,
No Burke pours out a stream of wit,
No Bofwell joys o'er wine.
At Baia's Spring, of Roman fame,
I quaff the pure æthereal flame,
To fire my languid blood:
Life's gladsome days, alas! are o'er,
For health's phogiston now no more
Pervades the ftagnant flood.
Studious at times, I ftrive to scan
Hope's airy dream,-the end of man,
In fystems wife or odd;
With Hume, I Fate and Death defy,
Or vifionary phantoms spy
With Plato and Monbodd.
By metaphyfic whims diftrefs'd,
Still fceptic thoughts difturb my breaft,
And reafon's out of tune :-
One serious truth let none impeach,
'Tis all Philofophy can teach,-
That man's an air-balloon.
He rides the sport of every blaft,
Now on the wave, or defert cast,
And by the eddy borne :-
Can boafted Reason fteer him right,
Or e'er restrain his rapid flight,
By Paffion's whirlwind torn?
His mounting fpirit, buoyant air,
But waft him 'midft dark clouds of care,
And life's tempeftuous trouble;
Ev'n though he fhine, in fplendid dyes,
And sport a while in Fortune's skies,
Soon burfts the empty bubble.
While through this pathlefs wafte we ftray,
Are there no flowers to cheer the way?
And must we ftill repine?
No;-Heaven, in pity to our woes,
The gently-foothing balm beftows
Of Mufic, Love, and Wine.
Then bid your Delia wake the lyre,
Attun'd to Love and foft Defire,
And scorn Ambition's ftrife;
Around let brilliant Fancy play,
To colour with her magic ray
The dreary gloom of life. Let Beauty speed her fondeft kifs, The prelude to more perfect blifs,
And fweet fenfations dart;
While wine and frolic mirth infpire
The ardent with, the amorous fire,
And thrill the raptur❜d heart.
But man has focial dues to pay,
Reason and Science claim the fway,
And truths fublime dispense;
For Pleasure's charms we feebly taste,
If idly every hour we waste,
The abject flaves of fenfe.
In vain the fpeculative mind
Would metaphyfic regions find,-
Such dark refearches fpare :.
The foul æthereal notions tire,
As her frail cafe can scarce refpire
In too refin'd an air.
To Sophifts leave their puzzling skill;
The voice of Reafon whispers ftill,
To blefs, is to be bleft;
Illum'd by Virtue's vivid ray,
Enjoy the prefent fleeting day,
And leave to Heaven the reft.
Bath, Sept. 22, 1784.
Written by the Right Hon. RICHARD FITZPATRICK.
S fprightly fun-beams gild the face of day,
When low'ring tempefts calmly glide away,
So when the poet's dark horizon clears,
Array'd in fmiles, the Epilogue appears.
She of that house the lively emblem ftill,
Whofe brilliant fpeakers ftart what themes they will;
Still varying topics for her fportive rhymes,
From all the follies of thefe fruitful times;
Uncheck'd by forms, with flippant hand may cull :
Prologues, like Peers, by privilege are dull.
In folemn ftrain addrefs th' affembled pit,
The legal judges of dramatic wit,
Confining ftill, with dignify'd decorum,
Their obfervations-to the play before 'em.
Now when each batchelor a helpmate lacks,
(That sweet exemption from a double tax)
When laws are fram'd with a benignant plan
Of light'ning burdens on the married man,
And Hymen adds one folid comfort more,
To all thofe comforts he conferred before;
To fmooth the rough laborious road to fame,
Our Bard has chofen-an alluring name.
As wealth in wedlock oft is known to hidę
The imperfections of a homely bride,
This tempting title, he perhaps expects,
May heighten beauties-and conceal defects:
Thus fixty's wrinkles view'd through Fortune's glafs,
The rofy dimples of fixteen furpafs:
The modern fuitor grafps his fair-one's hand,
O'erlooks her perfon, and adores-her land ;
Leers on her houses with an ogling eye,
O'er her rich acres heaves an am'rous figh.
His heartfelt pangs through groves of timber vents,
And runs diftracted for her three per cents.
Will thus the poet's mimic Heirefs find
The bridegroom critic to her failings blind,
Who claims, alas! his nicer taste to hit,
The lady's portion paid in sterling wit?
On
your decrees, to fix her future fate, Depends our Heiress for her whole eftate:
Rich in your smiles, fhe charms th' admiring town ;
A very bankrupt, fhould you chance to frown:
O may a verdict, giv'n in your applause,
Pronounce the profp'rous iffue of her caufe,
Confirm the name an anxious parent gave her,
And prove her HEIRESS of the public favour!
Spoken by Mifs FARREN.
HE Comic Mufe, who here erects her fhrine,
To' court your offerings, and accepts of mine,
Sends me to state an anxious author's plea,
And wait with humble hope this Court's decree.
By no prerogative will fhe decide,
She vows an English jury is her pride.
Then for our HEIRESS-forc'd from finer air,
That lately fann'd her plumes in Berkley-square;
Will the be helpless in her new resort,
And find no friends-about the Inns of Court?
VOL. XXVIII.
Sages, be candid-tho' you hate a knave,
Sure, for example, you'll a Rightly save.
Be kind for once, ye clerks-ye fportive Sirs,
Who haunt our Theatres in boots and fpurs,
So may you fafely prefs your nightly hobby,
Run the whole ring-and end it in the lobby.
Lovers of truth, be kind, and own that here,
That love is ftrain'd as far as it will bear.
Poets may write-Philofophers may dream-
But would the world bear truth in the extreme ?
What, not one Blandish left behind! not one!
Poets are mute, and painters all undone :
Where are those charms that nature's term furvive,
The maiden bloom that glows at forty-five?
Truth takes the pencil-wrinkle-freckles-fquint,
The whole's transform'd-the devil's in't,
Dimples turn fcars, the smile becomes a fcowl!
The hair the ivy-bush, the face the owl. .
But fhall an author mock the flatterer's pow'r ?
Oh, might you all be Blandishes this hour I
Then would the candid jurors of the pit
Grant their mild paffport to the realms of wit;
Then would I mount the car where oft I ride,
And place the favour'd culprit by my fide.
To aid our flight-one fashionable hint-
See my authority-a Morning Print-
"We learn" obferve it ladies-
France's Queen,
as Loves, like our own, a heart-directed fcene;
"And while each thought she weighs, each beauty fcans, "Breaks, in one night's applaufe, a score of fans!"
[Beating her fan against her hand.
Adopt the mode, ye belles-fo end my prattle,
And fhew how you'll out-do a Bourbon rattle.
A PATHETIC APOLOGY for all LAUREATS, past, prefent, and to come.
From Poems by W. WHITEHEAD, Efq. late Poet Laureat.
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