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! 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, With Freedom blest, at early dawn, And hail the sweet, returning Spring; To raise my vernal joys conspire, While Peace and Health their treasures bring. Come, lovely Health! divinest maid! To thee the rural shades belong: Behold the patient village-hind! While guiltless pleasure fills his breast. O ever good, and bounteous! still, 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, Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd, And for th' Athenian maid* who lov'd, Thou sought'st a wondrous spell; *See Midsummer Night's Dream. |