Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
  That found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;
  Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,
  Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! 
  Farewell, and oh! where’er thy voice be tried,
  On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side,
  Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
  Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
  Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
  Redress the rigours of th’ inclement clime;
  Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
  Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
  Teach him, that states of native strength possessed,
  Though very poor, may still be very blessed;
  That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay,
  As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;
  While self-dependent power can time defy,
  As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

  FROM RETALIATION

  Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such
  We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
  Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind,
  And to party gave up what was meant for mankind;
  Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
  To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
  Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
  And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining;
  Though equal to all things, for all things unfit—­
  Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit,
  For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient,
  And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient: 
  In short, ’twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir,
  To eat mutton cold and cut blocks with a razor.

* * * * *

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are: 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine—­
Like a tragedy-queen he has dizened her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout;
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? 
Say, was it that, vainly directing his view
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last and drew from himself?

* * * * *