Is there a Lord* whose great unspotted soul, Not places, pensions, ribbons can controul; Unlac'd, unpowder'd, almost unobserv'd, Eats not on silver while his train are starv'd; Who, tho' to nobles, or to kings ally'd, Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride; With merit humble, and with greatness 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 estate, And harder still, too honest to be great; If such an one there be, well-bred, polite, To him I'll dedicate, for him I'll write.

Peace to the rest- I can be no man's slave; I ask for nothing, tho' I nothing have. By fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe, Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate; And have not learnt to flatter, even the great. Few friends I ask, and those who love me well; What more remains, these artless lines shall tell. Of honest parents, not of great, I came; Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame,

* Right Hon. Nevil, Lord Lovelace, who died soon after, in the 28th year of of his age.

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 Heaven be lent
Among my blessings! and I'm well content.
I ask no more, but in some calm retreat,
To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat.
No noisy slaves attending round my room;
My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.
No orphans cheated, and no widow's curse,
No household lord, for better or for worse.
No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin,
But just enough to keep me plain and clean.
And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way,
Charlotte should smile, or you approve my lay,
Enough for me I cannot put my trust
In lords; smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust.
Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:
An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

Was the daughter of a clergyman named Moore, and wife

of the Rev. J. Brooke.

Except her sweet and simple afterpiece Rosina, the various works of this ingenious lady, novels, plays, pastorals &c. are now forgotten.

Ode to Health.

THE Lesbian lute no more can charm,
Nor my once-panting bosom warm;
No more I breathe the tender sigh;
Nor when my beauteous swain appears,
With downcast look, and starting tears,
Confess the lustre of his eye.

With Freedom blest, at early dawn,
I wander o'er the verdant lawn,

And hail the sweet, returning Spring;
The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir,

To raise my vernal joys conspire,

While Peace and Health their treasures bring.

Come, lovely Health! divinest maid!
And lead me thro' the rural shade,

To thee the rural shades belong:
"Tis thine to bless the simple swain,
And, while he tries the tuneful strain,
To raise the raptur'd Poet's song.

Behold the patient village-hind!
No cares disturb his tranquil mind;
By thee, and sweet Contentment, blest,
All day he turns the stubborn plain,
And meets at eve his infant train,

While guiltless pleasure fills his breast.

O ever good, and bounteous! still,
By fountain fresh, or murmuring rill,
Let me thy blissful presence find!
Thee, Goddess! thee my steps pursue,
When, careless of the morning dew,

I leave the lessening vales behind.

GREVILLE,

Born. died

Of Mrs. Greville, whose Prayer for Indifference has been so much admired, I can give no account.

Prayer for Indifference.

OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary:
For once I'll seek my wish to gain
Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
Who lurk'st in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's silver light,
Trip'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,

And for th' Athenian maid* who lov'd,

Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

*See Midsummer Night's Dream.