Richard Ames Poems

. . . No Monarch so bless'd, or so happy as me,
While thus, my dear Horace, I hug it in thee:
Admire it in loftier Virgil, or Smile
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Amidst the Publick Joy, which every where,
With Acclamations, fills the yeilding Air,
Permit a Muse (all drench't in Tears) a while
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How hardly we sad doleful Truths believe!
And though prepar'd, unwllingly we grieve.
But here's a Subject calls for Floods of Tears,
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To all Pretty young Girls, by a late sawcy Pen,
Expos'd to an Auction as Matches for Men,
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Consider, Reader, who lies here,
And for thy Loss then Drop a Tear;
'Tis BAXTER, whose unwearied Pen
Strove to Reform the Lives of Men:
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Wisht morning arriv'd, where Men Ply for their Fares,
We took Oars, and were Landed at Parliament-Stairs;
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Love is not Wounds, nor Darts, nor Fire,
Nor an unbridled wild Desire:
That never holds which runs too fast;
What's Violent can never last.
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Ah me! How great a Cordial's Hope,
When sawcy Fear don't interlope?
How sweetly at the Tett we tipple,
Till Fear puts Wormwood on the Nipple?
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I.
Tis so—I feel the warm Poetick Fire
Glow in my Breast, and vig'rous Thoughts Inspire,
In flowing Dress I see the Muse descend
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To you the chief Grievance and Plague of the Time,
Heavy Thrashers of Prose, and Tormentors of Rhime.
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