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And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line or two were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine:
With lively air and open heart,
And fashion's ease without its art,
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, Oh, Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hot-house!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the devil
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask-for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book;
Or take my physic, while I'm able,
Two spoonfuls, hourly, by this label;
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless my stars, I've got a fever.

THE END,

Printed by J. F. Dove, St. John's Square.

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