Posts tagged ‘1763’

Sunday, 19 February 2017

To Mr. Grenville on his Intended Resignation by Richard Berenger

A Wretch tir’d out with Fortune’s blows,
Resolv’d at once to end his woes;
And like a thoughtless silly elf,
In the next pond to drown himself.
‘Tis fit, quoth he, my life should end,
The cruel world is not my friend;
I have nor meat, nor drink, nor cloaths,
But want each joy that wealth bestows;
Besides, I hold my life my own,
And when I please may lay it down;
A wretched hopeless thing am I,
Forgetting, as forgot, I’ll die.

Not so, said one who stood behind,
And heard him thus disclose his mind;
Consider well pray what you do,
And think what numbers live in you:
If you go drown, your woes to ease,
Pray who will keep your lice and fleas?
On yours alone their lives depend,
With you they live, with you must end.

On great folks thus the little live,
And in their sunshine bask and thrive:
But when those suns no longer shine,
The hapless insects droop and pine.

Oh GRENVILLE* then this tale apply,
Nor drown yourself lest I should die:
Compassionate your louse’s case,
And keep your own to save his place.

*George Grenville served as the Prime Minister of Great Britain between 1763 and 1765.


Date: 1763

By: Richard Berenger (1719-1782)

Saturday, 17 December 2016

Death and the Doctor by David Garrick

Occasioned by a Physician’s lampooning a Friend of the AUTHOR.

As Doctor ** musing sate,
Death saw, and came without delay:
Enters the room, begins the chat
With, “Doctor, why so thoughtful, pray?”

The Doctor started from his place,
But soon they more familiar grew:
And then he told his piteous case,
How trade was low, and friends were few.

“Away with fear,” the phantom said,
As soon as he had heard his tale:
“Take my advice and mend your trade,
“We both are losers if you fail.

“Go write, your wit in satire show,
“No matter, whether smart, or true;
“Call ** names, the greatest foe
“To dullness, folly, pride, and you.

“Then copies spread, there lies the trick,
“Among your friends besure you send ’em:
“For all who read will soon grow sick,
“And when you’re call’d upon, attend ’em.

“Thus trade increasing by degrees,
“Doctor, we both shall have our ends:
“For you are sure to have your fees,
“And I am sure to have your friends.


Date: 1763

By: David Garrick (1717-1779)

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Mrs. Bindon’s Answer by Mrs. Bindon

When home I return’d from the dancing last night,
And elate by your praises attempted to write,
I familiarly call’d on Apollo for aid,
And told him how many fine things you had said;
He smil’d at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writing you shew;
And then, says the God, still to make you more vain,
He hath promis’d that I shall enlighten your brain,
When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
That no woman alive can now boast I am kind:
For since Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel,
With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.
I thought it all joke, ’till by writing to you,
I have prov’d his resentment, alas! but too true.


Date: 1763

By: Mrs. Bindon (?-?)

Saturday, 25 June 2016

To Chlorinda by Anthony Alsop

See, Strephon, what unhappy fate
Does on thy fruitless passion wait,
Adding to flame fresh fuel:
Rather than thou should’st favour find;
The kindest soul on earth’s unkind,
And the best nature cruel.

The goodness, which Chlorinda shews,
From mildness and good breeding flows,
But must not love be stil’d:
Or else ’tis such as mothers try,
When wearied with incessant cry,
They still a froward child.

She with a graceful mien and air,
Genteely civil, yet severe,
Bids thee all hopes give o’er.
Friendship she offers, pure and free;
And who, with such a friend as she,
Cou’d want, or wish for more?

The cur that swam along the flood,
His mouth well fill’d with morsel good,
(Too good for common cur!)
By visionary hopes betray’d,
Gaping to catch a fleeting shade,
Lost what he held before.

Mark, Strephon, and apply this tale,
Lest love and friendship both should fail;
Where then wou’d be thy hope?
Of hope, quoth Strephon, talk not, friend;
And for applying — know, the end
Of ev’ry cur’s a rope.


Date: 1763 (published)

By: Anthony Alsop (c1670-1726)

Monday, 18 January 2016

On A Lady’s Hurting Her Hand with the Author’s Sword by John Duncombe

A Fate like mine, as poets sing,
The son of Tydeus found,
Who durst on Beauty’s Queen inflict
A sacrilegious wound.

But deeper is the wound I feel,
And keener is the smart,
Since Venus’ self must own the hand
Less tender than the heart.

From: Fawkes, Francis and Woty, William (eds.), The poetical calendar: Containing a collection of scarce and valuable pieces of poetry: … by the most eminent hands. Intended as a supplement to Mr. Dodsley’s collection. 2008, University of Michigan Library: Ann Arbor, Michigan, p. 80.

Date: 1763

By: John Duncombe (1729-1786)