But truft your lays with me. Some things I've read, "Was born a poet, tho' no poet bred : "And if I find they'll bear my nicer view, "I'll recommend your pocty-and you.”
Shock'd at his civil impudence, I start,
Pocket my poem, and in hafte depart ;
Refolv'd no more to offer up my wit,
Where footmen in the feat of critics fit.
Is there a lord whofe great unfpotted foul,
Not places, penfions, ribbons can control;
Unlac'd, unpowder'd, almoft unobferv'd,
Eats not on filver, while his train are ftarv'd;
Who, tho' to nobles, or to kings ally'd,
Dares walk on foot, while flaves in coaches ride;
With merit humble, and with greatnefs free,
Has bow'd to Freeman, and has din'd with me ;
Who, bred in foreign courts, and early known,
Has yet to learn the cunning of his own;
To titles born, yet heir to no eftate,
And, harder ftill, too honeft to be great;
If fuch an one there be, well-bred, polite,
To him I'll dedicate, for him I'll write.
Peace to the reft. I can be no man's flave;
I afk for nothing, tho' I nothing have.
By fortune humbled, yet not funk fo low
To fhame a friend, or fear to meet a foe.
* Right Hon. Nevil lord Lovelace, who died foon after, in the 28th year of his age.
Meannefs, in ribbons or in rags, I hate;
And have not learnt to flatter, ev'n the great.
Few friends I ask, and those who love me well;
What more remains, these artless lines shall tell. 105
Of honeft parents, not of great, I came;
Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame,
Frugal and plain, at no man's cost they eat,
Nor knew a baker's, or a butcher's debt.
O be their precepts ever in my eye!
For one has learnt to live, and one to die.
Long may her widow'd age by heav'n be lent
Among my bleffings! and I'm well content.
I ask no more, but in some calm retreat,
To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat.
No noify flaves attending round my room;
My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.
No orphans cheated, and no widow's curfe,
No houfhold lord, for better or for worse.
No monftrous fums to tempt my foul to fin,
But just enough to keep me plain, and clean.
And if fometimes, to smooth the rugged way,
Charlot fhould fmile, or you approve my lay,
Enough for me. I cannot put my trust
In lords; fmile lies, eat toads, or lick the duft. 125
Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:
An honeft heart is worth its weight in gold.
POEMS BY UNCERTAIN AUTHORS.
A BALLADE OF THE NOT-BROWNE
Be it ryght, or wrong, these men among
On woman do complayne, Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne,
To love them wele, for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
* Supposed to have been written about the year 1500.
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