The flights of fancy: being a collection of original pieces, in verse and prose, never before publish'd.

POEMS on several OCCASIONS.

An Epistle to D. G. Esq;

MAY I not hope your Patience will endure The plain wrought Offering of a Muse obscure. For once be pleas'd set Ceremony by, Nor think me wanting in Sincerity Because I've sent no stale Apology; Say, shall it be less welcome 'cause it came Signatur'd by one beneath th' Heed of Fame? Reduc'd by Fortune to an humble State, Deny'd by Genius ever to be great.

Alas! I'm lost in thinking what to say, 'Till Thought kills Thought and drives my Muse away: At length I doze, and wander in my Dreams, Hunting new Epithets, Sentiments and Themes; Then pleas'd I wake, but find my Treasures flown, Before my eager Hand can set 'em down.

How hard to please myself—what shall I do In such a Case, how please the World and you!

My fancy breeds apace, no Mortal's more, But then the Produce proves so very poor, 'Twill scarce deserve Admittance at your Door, My Days, thank Fate, are well employ'd; at Night I spin a Rhime or two by Candle-light.

To aim at Fame is dangerous indeed; Scores make Attempt but very few succeed. Far be the Thought, the fatal Thought from me; For ever let me boast Humility; To please a few, and that same few my Friends, Will be the Summit of my Hopes,—my Ends Wou'd be fulfill'd, cou'd I with humble Stride Tread the smooth Plain with H—d by my Side.

Let others try the lofty Hill to climb, Soaring Scholastic 'bove the Reach of Rhime; Clad in the Vest of Sophs regardless stand, The Praise or Censure of the Critic's Hand; Thirsting for Pathos to confound the Sense, Like useless Gew-gaws shaming the Expence: O be it mine to speak in Nature's Strain! At once to picture, and at once explain;— No Pomp of Words cou'd e'er enrapture me, Like pure-wrote Sounds, in plain Simplicity, To trace out Nature's wild and endless Scene, Her painted Vallies and her Woodlands green: There can I seek for Themes when Fancy dies, Walk thro the Forest, and observe the Skies; Nor seek in vain—each Day sends something new, Some new-born Beauty rises to my View.

Cou'd I but steal the Art of painting here These Scenes in Verse, as they to me appear; Had I the Power with that Art to please, To paint 'em well, and paint 'em too with ease, Cou'd I like you, at once ensnare the Mind, Engage the Eye, and keep the Heart confin'd, And do it too with such engaging Grace, With manly Strides the Paths of Nature trace, The Muses then should claim each Mite of Time, And every Thought I'd jingle into Rhime. Vain Hopes alas—But hopes are apt to please, And fancy'd Pleasures sometimes give us ease. Credulity, a mild and simple Maid, Too oft alas! by Promises betray'd, Follows the Fantom Hope with Steps so fast, Till Disappointment, kills her at the last.

Ne'er let me be so curs'd, as to depend Upon a Promise, or to lose a Friend, Nor pin my Hopes too closely on the Sleeve Of Old or Young; I've found 'em both deceive; The silver'd Pole is ap er e'er to sin, Than he who ne'er felt Razor on his Chin; Old Age breeds Craft, and near his Elbow Chair Sets Folly plac'd, his Favourite and Heir; Peace to all such, if such can Peace enjoy Whose shallow Promise tends but to destroy Their Neighbours Peace,—that Wretch I envy not Who boasts a Name by broken Friendship got; For ever will I bar my homely Door, Against the greatest Knave so meanly poor.

Conscience shall haunt the disingenuous slave And Time shall lead him blindfold to his Grave.

I boast no Art, thence can no Credit lose: I paint to shew my Meaning, not confuse: No Rogue to flatter, nor no Friend abuse. The meanest Figure, claims as great a Share Of Skill to paint it well, as the most fair. But those the meanest of the mean I call Who gain with all my Pains no Praise at all.

You that by Nature have an Heart design'd To hear and heal the Suff'rings of Mankind, May you ne'er trust the Wretch whose Friendship tends To no one's Good, but his own private Ends.

THE BANKS of CHELMER.

THO' Windsor boasts her Tyrants and her Kings, Her shady Groves, her Forest and her Springs; Her lofty Temples, and her costly Gems, Her murm'ring Loddon, and her sister Thames, Admit my Muse, to tread in humble lays, And sing, tho' lowly, in fair Chelmer's praise. What tho' thy Banks by Kings were never trod, No stately Savage grac'd thee with a Nod;

Thou happ'ly 'scap'd the arbitrary Frown, Nor felt the Curse of being near a Crown.

Once on a Time there liv'd a rural Pair, The gentle Philo and Salina fair, The sad Leander lov'd not more than he, When, arm'd with Love, he dar'd the raging Sea; No story'd Fair cou'd ever boast a Mind More pure; no Maid cou'd shew an Heart more kind Than she; her Tresses play'd about her Waist In flowing Curls; her Head, with Posies grac'd, Like the fair Lilly essenc'd ev'ry Gale, While o'er the Lawn she trip't, or thro' the Dale.

On Chelmer's Banks the gentle Pair first trod, Ere this fair Land felt vile Oppression's Rod; In golden Times, when Love o'er Interest stood, And Statesmen sought their King and Country's Good; He tended Flocks, while she the Distaff play'd, Upon the Brow, or near some friendly Shade.

Long had their Breast's felt Cupid's gentle Flame, And stifl'd Love with common Friendship's name; Till bursting forth, the Blaze dispell'd the Smoke And Philo first to his Salina spoke: — We've long my fair Salina, trod these Plains, In Summer's Heat, and Winter's drenching Rains; We often steal the Honey from the Bees, And oft we pluck the Blossom from the Trees, Their tempting Sweetness urge us to the Deed, But yet we find 'em cloy us as we feed. There grows one Flower, yet, that I revere, Survives in Bloom throughout the killing Year;

Whose tempting Blush, and never-fading Smell, By far all Blossoms of the Spring excell; Whose damask Leaves distill a balmy Dew, That breeds Desire, and maintains it too; I oft behold it as I tread the Mead, And every Day my longing eyes I feed With fond Desire; till at last I pine, Sigh to myself, and wish the Blossom mine. Still must I pine, still must I sigh in vain, 'Tis ••ou must ease my Hopes and cure my Pain; Within your Reach it hangs, within your Breast, To make me wretched, or to make me blest.

Nay cease to grieve, the fair Salina cry'd, Have you e'er ask'd me ought that I deny'd? Sure you have found me selfish and unkind To think I bear about so poor a Mind: Did ••ou a Lambkin or an Heifer chuse, You never knew me such a Boon refuse. Then bring me, Philo, where this Wonder grows, Be it a Lilly, Hyacinth or Rose; Be 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the fairest Bud that ever sprung, The sweetest Blue-bell ever Fair rung, Within my Reach, or in my Power to give, If Philo ask it, Philo shall receive.

Thanks lovely Maid,—but O! you'll change your Mind, When you this fair, this blooming Beauty find.

Nay doubt me not, nor yet my Truth decry, Let not my Word upon Suspicion die;

Let not your Thoughts be timid and unkind, Till I've my promise and my Truth declin'd: No tempting Sweet, no Rose that ever sprung, Shall make me faulter in my Heart or Tongue; Ne'er let me tread these fertile Banks again, Nor walk with Philo o'er the verdant Plain, When I forget the Promise I have made, Banish Salina to some distant Shade.

Nay lovely Maid be ever, ever near, Shou'd you, shou'd fair Salina disappear, These lonely Plains, wou'd be more lonely still, And Burs and Thistles grow on every Hill; To yonder Brook then let us bend our way, And there behold the Prodigy of May; And there behold my Heart, my Soul's Delight, My wish by Day and all my Dreams by Night.

Methinks 'tis strange that one poor simple Flower Shou'd o'er an Heart like yours obtain such Power; The Bee, 'tis true, and Butterfly will rove, And sport around with animated Love, When ev'ry Flower rising to their Sight, Invites the Heart and yields 'em new Delight;— The Sun declines apace let's instant go, And try if I'll not keep my Word or no.

Then straight they tript together o'er the Plain, And Bands of Cupids follow'd in a Train, To bind two Hearts with Wreaths that never fade, And prove the Promise of a tender Maid;

The Banks they reach, and next the crystal Brook, In which young Philo bid Salina look.

The Banks are pleasant, and the Stream is clear, But yet I see Rose or Lilly near, Some cruel Swain has stole it e'er we came; In such a Case can I be ought to blame?

Say can you nothing in the Stream behold? No perfect Beauty of celestial Mould? See you not something like yourself appear? The Substance of that Shadow I revere; — Thou art the Substance, thou my boasted Bloom, 'Tis thou must ease my Heart, or seal my Doom.

Ungen'rous Swain, how cou'd you thus ensnare With study'd Arts, a poor unguarded Fair! Am I the fairest Philo ever saw, Cou'd poor Salina such Desire draw? Alas! I grieve to think what I have done, Things end in Sorrow that are rash begun; Let me recall it, sure I was asleep; Must I indeed my artless Promise keep? Must I perforce then give myself away, To be the Idol of a single Day? To be forgot if Philo ere shou'd see, Some other Maid, still fairer yet than me? But O! remember shou'd you ever find Some other Maid, more fair, more true, more kind. Forget not then who once you deem'd a Prize▪ Nor make your captive Fair a Sacrifice.

O never! never! talk not so again, Such fancy'd Ills will rive my Heart in twain.— Here do I vow, and when I prove unkind, Teem down ye Clouds, and unloose the Wind; Let forked Lightning thro' my Cottage shoot, And Thunder tear whole Forests by the Root; Let every Lamb that in my Pastures stray By turgid Floods be caught and wash'd away; Let me be sunk in Famine and Despair Beneath the Horror of the warring air.

Nay, gentle Swain, my Heart wou'd bleed to see Thee made the Spectacle of Misery; Shou'd thou prove kind, and keep thy Passion true, I wou'd not wish a fairer Swain than you.

When I prove false,—but that can never be, My Health, my Life, my ev'ry Hope's in thee; If this fond Heart shou'd e'er a Traitor prove, And violate the sacred Laws of Love, Let Shame be painted on my guilty Breast, And Sorrow hunt me from the Bed of Rest. What shall I say;—for O I cannot feign What I am not, were I the World to gain; What shall I say, to make my fair believe, These Tears are real,

Cease, O! cease to grieve; Here take my Hand, my Heart I wou'd resign, But that has fled this many a Day to thine;

My Breast, forlorn, oft led me to despair, Save when methought I felt my Philo's there.

O! let me clasp it to my panting Breast, Heal my fond Heart, and give it endless Rest. Ye Woods and Vales, that heard the lovely Sound, Tell it in Ecchos to the Plains around; Let the sweet Woodlark raise his Notes divine, Telling each Swain that fai•• ••••••••••a's mine.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE Merry Midnight Mistake.

WITH much Reluctance they have brought me here, To try your Patience, and to cure my Fear; But if, in trying, I shou'd chance to fail, You soon shall see me (Frenchman-like) turn Tail.

Our Author's here behind in a such a Taking, Scratching his Head, shivering and shaking, I or fear his comic Bantling shou'd not please— He here presents you with his Prologue Fees; A little Ca••ting and a thousand Smiles— For complimenting more than Truth beguiles:

So he, poor man! since Canting is the Mode, Must needs go plodding in the common Road; Begs you'd permit his Brat walk unmolested, Shou'd the poor Thing chance to be divested Of Congreve's Wit, or Dryd••n's nice Conn••••tion: For sure the poorest Child claims some Protection. And if, in walking, it should chance to trip, Or, falling, cut its little Nose or Lip, You'll please to save the poor declining thing, By kindly catching hold the leading-string.

Some proudly pleas'd in finding out a Fault, But mostly those who can't digest a Thought; Rude nature gave 'em Rancour to condemn, But bury'd all their Candour in their Phlegm. Or (like enough) some sage good Dame may frown, Displeas'd with every Notion but her own, And in her Pride, from pious Motives, say, "There's nothing good can come from out a Play;" And kindly shewing 'tis not from her Spleen, But judges wisely what she's never seen. For many Author's have unjustly ble••d; Their plays being damn'd before a Line was read.

The Actors too your candour must implore, If Actors those who never play'd before; Unskill'd, unstudied in these Stage Affairs— They've other Business to engross their cares— They only do it to oblige a Friend; No other Motive, secret Pride, or End, Save this—to force a gentle Smile from you— We'll do our best—'tis all the Best can do.

THE EPILOGUE TO THE Merry Midnight Mistake.

I Tell you I will—Plague on't I'm so teaz'd— The Author thinks his Firstling has not pleas'd: I say he's quite mista'en; but all wont do; He'll not be easy 'till he hears from you. He wants poor me your Anger to amuse, By trumping up some frivolous Excuse. I fain wou'd lay it on the Acting now; But that is Modesty will not allow— I'd lay it on the Prompter—if I knew how. You plainly see I've no Excuse at all, The best way'll be to let the Curtain fall.— Yet hold—I've something yet to say—aye right; We'll do it better, Sirs, another Night; We'll be more perfect, act with better Spirit, For Application is the Way to Merit. Fear's the great Tyrant in a doubtful Breast, From thence our first Attempts are seldom best, Cou'd we have acted as we did intend, Not one Soul here but would have been our Friend.

Thanks for that Smile—by Jove mehinks I hear You kindly say—"We need not be in Fear" "Because there's none but Friends and Neighbours here." Thanks for this good Confession, 'tis very kind, I long to carry this good News behind. They're all distress'd to know what I have done; And I'm as much impatient to be gone.

THE PROLOGUE TO Redowald, a Masque.

WERE it not, Sirs, impossible to find, A Subject suiting ev'ry Readers Mind, A Prologue or a Preface would be vain, Because we know that no one would complain; And yet I've seen a well wrote Piece go down, And please (tho' rare) the better half the Town; An half bred Prig, to shew superior Skill, That scarce cou'd read, or knew the use of Quill, Has sally'd forth with Envy in each Eye, And Spight of Fate, would Shame itself defy,

And Critic like, to do the Thing he ought, Would find a Beauty in an errant Fault; That not enough, to prove himself a Fool, Would murder Beauties by the self same Rule. Our infant Author hopes his Piece may fall In better Hands, or else in none at all; Just from the Lap of Genius bends his Way To fam'd Panassion Fields, where Poets stray; But finds it cull'd and shorn, a barren Field, That's furnish'd Ages, now will hardly yield A single Shrub, but what we've seen before Be-clipt and turn'd, and twin'd into a Score. Such as they are he brings to public View, And if you find there's old ones with the New, Pray tell me, Sir, that famous Poet's Name, That living Bard that does not do the same. If near his Neighbour's Produce he intrudes, For Nature's self has her Similitudes; The self-same Thought might strike both you and me, And I the least stand charg'd of Piracy. You've here in Hand a little moral Piece, Nor Stole from France, nor Italy, nor Greece, A Child of Fancy nurtur'd by the Mind, If bad comes on't I know 'twas well design'd.

THE EPILOGUE TO Redowald, a Masque.

SHou'd some grave wit our Author's Piece decry, And damn the Plot from meer Acerbity; Let gentle Candour rise and take his Part, And own he's shewn more Genius than Art. To write a Play you'll own is no small Task, Then what must be the Labour of a Masque? Fancy must aid the Bard where Nature fails, And daring Genius muster all her Sails; Our nonag'd Poet unregarding Time, Slipt from his Wing; and, touring forth sublime, Survey'd the Muses with enraptur'd Eyes, Ador'd their Tracks and mounted to the Skies — Shou'd it be said Ambition was the Cause That urg'd him first to write;—or vain Applause; Ere you convict him of a Thirst for Fame, Turn to the Title, and find out his Name.

The Pretty Maid of Chelmsford.

A Pretty Maid both kind and fair Dwells in Chelmsford Town, Her pleasing Smiles, her easy Air, Engages Fop and Clown.

Being accosted t'other Day By a clumsy 'Squire, Who ask'd her if she knew the Way To quench a raging Fire.

Water, Sir, reply'd the Maid, Will quench it in a Trice, O no, said he, you little Jade, I've try'd that once or twice.

Then Sir, said she, 'tis past my Skill To tell you what will do; I'm sure, said he, you know what will; There's nothing can but you.

Alas-a-day what do you mean, Reply'd the pretty Fair; I'd have you try it once again; You never shou'd despair.

Despair I cannot, cry'd the 'Squire, While you are in my Sight, 'Tis you must quench the burning Fire, You set it first alight.

Then strait he clasp'd her round the Waist, And forc'd from her a Kiss, Ho! ho; said she, is that your Taste; Then pray you, Sir, take this.

And with a Pail, plac'd at the Door, She sluic'd the amorous 'Squire; Your'e welcome, Sir, to this and more, To quench your raging Fire.