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The jocund loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,
With pity's wat’ry sight.
In youth immortal warm ;
charm. The arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire ; The marble breathes, the canvass glows,
The muses sweep the lyre.
To sufferings not my own,
Where'er is heard a groan.
Her natural ally,
Prepare it for the sky."
And you, fond maid, approve:
Whate'er you wish or love!
Lead on the various year,
Extend a larger sphere !
And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!
FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.
Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.
Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company - pray do but note 'emYou would think that the wise men of Greece were
all there, Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men
My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ; There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to
Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [ing,
And opening his mouth with a smile quite engagThe box in reply was heard plainly to say,
What a silly dispute is this we are waging !
If you have a little of merit to claim, [weed,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The beforemention'd drug in apology plead.
Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
But of any thing else they may choose to put in us.
THE FLATTING MILL.
When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain
Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, And catch in its progress a sensible glow.
After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST,
A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS,
THESE are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come, And, on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.
Alarm d, she call'd him, and perplex'd
She sought him, but in vainThat day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how, None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead, Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame;
But always in a flame.