The Beau to the Virtuosos: Alluding to a Proposal for the Publication of a Set of Butterflies

HAIL curious wights, to whom so fair

The form of mortal flies is!

Who deem those grubs beyond compare,

Which common sense despises.

Whether o'er hill, morass or mound,

You make your sportsman sallies;

Or that your prey in gardens found

Is urg'd thro' walks and alleys,

Yet, in the fury of the chase,

No slope could e'er retard you;

Blest, if one fly repay the race,

Or painted wing reward you.

Fierce as Camilla, o'er the plain,

Pursu'd the glittering stranger;

Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain,

And knew not fear nor danger.

'Tis you dispense the fav'rite meat

To nature's filmy people;

Know what conserves they choose to eat,

And what liquers, to tipple.

And, if her brood of insects dies,

You sage assistance lend her;

Can stoop to pimp for am'rous flies,

And help 'em to engender.

'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;

And when the birth's at hand,

Exerting your obstetric pow'r,

Prevent a mothless land.

Yet oh! howe'er your tow'ring view

Above gross objects rises;

Whate'er refinements you pursue,

Hear, what a friend advises.

A friend, who, weigh'd with yours, must prize

Domitian's idle passion;

That wrought the death of teasing flies,

But ne'er their propagation.

Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,

Nor thus your hearts determine,

To slight dame Nature's fairest form,

And sigh for Nature's vermin.

And speak with some respect of beaux;

No more, as triflers, treat 'em;

'Tis better learn to save one's clothes,

Than cherish moths that eat 'em.

William Shenstone

Written at an Inn at Henley

TO thee, fair Freedom! I retire,

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;

Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,

And every health which I begin,

Converts dull port to bright champagne;

Such Freedom crowns it, at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,

I fly from Falsehood's specious grin;

Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings, at an inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lackeys else might hope to win;

It buys what courts have not in store,

It buys me Freedom, at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been,

May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome -- at an inn.

William Shenstone

The Landskip

       A Song

[Ed. Note: "landskip" means "landscape"]

HOW pleas'd within my native bowers

  Erewhile I pass'd the day!

Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?

  Were ever flowers so gay?

How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale,

  And all the landskip round!

The river gliding down the dale!

  The hill with beeches crown'd!

But now, when urg'd by tender woes,

  I speed to meet my dear,

That hill and stream my zeal oppose,

  And check my fond career.

No more, since Daphne was my theme,

  Their wonted charms I see:

That verdant hill, and silver stream,

  Divide my love and me.

William Shenstone

Ode to a Young Lady

Somewhat Too Solicitious about Her Manner of Expression

SURVEY, my fair! that lucid stream,

Adown the smiling valley stray;

Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,

To regulate its winding way?

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair

In loose dishevell'd ringlets flow:

Not all thy art, not all thy care,

Can there one single grace bestow.

Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enamell'd o'er;

Say, can the painter's utmost skill

Instruct one flower to please us more?

As vain it were, with artful dye

To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose;

And oh may Laura, ere she try,

With fresh vermilion paint the rose.

Hark how the wood-lark's tuneful throat

Can every study'd grace excel;

Let Art constrain the rambling note,

And will she, Laura, please so well?

Oh ever keep thy native ease,

By no pedantic law confin'd!

For Laura's voice is form'd to please,

So Laura's words be not unkind.

William Shenstone