The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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The Discovery.
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
The Discovery.
I.
This comes to let Liberia know,That beauty is so much heav'n's care,
That all, fine women say, or do,
Is mark'd, and treasur'd, in the air.
II.
Hence, I, a stranger to your sight,Whose hand, perhaps, you do not know,
Learn, all you do, by day, or night,
As by these presents, I shall show.
III.
Your memory cannot but retainSome hint of little Pope's bold muse,
Who, made, by lady's secrets, vain,
Did, once, a tell-tale subject chuse.
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IV.
Have you not read him, where he prates,Of Arabella's ravish'd hair;
And stories, of those silphs, relates,
Whose sweet task is, to guard the fair.
V.
I am that happy silph, assign'd,To screen Liberia's breast, from harms;
To flutter round her, in the wind,
And feast my fancy, with her charms.
VI.
I have you, always, in my view;And, t'other day, employ'd my wit,
With nameless lines, to puzzle you,
On the grief-wither'd sun-flow'r, writ.
VII.
I, at that time, in ambush, plac'd,Snug, under Mopsy's left ear, lay,
And laugh'd, to hear, how wrong you guess'd,
Who thought they came another way.
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VIII.
'Twas I, your faithful silph, 'twas I,That, ever studious of your ease,
My skill, in verse, resolv'd to try,
In verse, which, most, the fair can please.
IX.
Perhaps, 'twill startle you, to hear,How I, your actions, hourly, watch:
That, though you see me not, I'm near;
And fly, each straggling sigh to catch!
X.
Sometimes, in this shape, sometimes that,My various duties I perform;
Sometimes, astride your rambling cat,
I hide, in fur, and shade my form.
XI.
But, when your stroking hand I feel,From the soft back, I leap, with joy;
My fairy fabrick, still, conceal,
But Puss's active paws employ,
And, sportful, with your milky fingers, toy.
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XII.
Oft, as you sit, to sip your tea,In a fly's shape, your charms to search,
Seeking some place, where, best, to see,
I, on the lumps of sugar, perch.
XIII.
There, while, one day, divinely pleas'd,I gaz'd, in raptures, on your face,
Your sugar-tongs the Captain seiz'd,
And me, between two lumps, he squeez'd,
Half dead, upon the place.
XIV.
But I was even with him, soon,For, catching him, all gay,
At the Park door, one afternoon,
With hands, too full of play:
I took the figure of a gnat,
And, midst his am'rous strains,
Whisk'd, from your bosom, where I sat,
And stung his fingers, for his pains,
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XV.
But, oh! I tremble, to relate,How, by your smile-blest looks, bewitch'd,
I, lately, 'scap'd a far worse fate;
While you, with red, and yellow, mix'd,
At work, on yonder threshold, fix'd,
Your silky mazes stitch'd.
XVI.
There, I, again, a luckless fly,Not dreaming any danger near,
Lay, basking in your sunny eye,
My little aking heart to chear.
XVII.
When, on a sudden, through and through,Your piercing needle, careless, pass'd,
And the drag'd silk, swift-following, too,
Bound down my tiny body fast.
XVIII.
There, had I stay'd, transfix'd, 'till now,Nor miss'd, nor mourn'd, perhaps, by you!
But, that the stitch, the lord knows how,
You lik'd not, and, thank heav'n, withdrew.
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XIX.
When, once, with you, your sister Celia stood,Celia! that sweet, and lovely maid!
Two thoughtless bold park-wand'ring fops were rude,
And you two charmers, both afraid,
Rush'd in, and fled, dismay'd,
XX.
I, then, fair charge! unknown to you,By love, and vow'd revenge, inspir'd,
Did, like a wasp, the fools pursue,
And, slily, down their throats, retir'd.
XXI.
Then, to their tongue's presumptuous root, I flee,And both, with tingling venom, fir'd;
Now learn, said I, when, next, you see
Yon tempting pair adorn their gate,
How sacred modest loveliness should be,
And what the insolent prophaner's fate!
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XXII.
Thus, all day long, is Seraphil,Liberia's wakeful silph employ'd;
So rich a charge claims ten-fold skill,
And care, so charm'd, can ne'er be cloy'd.
XXIII.
But, when, at night, the happy bedReceives her snowy limbs, to rest,
I sleep's soft mist, about her spread;
Then, stretch me, blissful, on her breast.
XXIV.
There, 'till the full grown morning smiles,In downy heavings, lost, I lie,
Or, wander o'er those charms, 'twixt whiles,
For which a thousand lovers die.
XXV.
At last, unwillingly, I rise,And seizing fast her rubied lip,
In a sharp-biting flea's disguise,
I, from her breath, the nectar sip.
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XXVI.
And, then, Liberia, starting, cries,Duce take this ugly sharp-mouth'd flea!
But, now I'm wak'd, I think, I'll rise:
So dresses—and ne'er dreams of me!
XXVII.
Thus, have I honestly, at last, confess'd,What sort of little scribbling thing I be;
Lest, growing curious, you might wrong have guess'd,
And thought some other sent, what came from me.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |