The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cease, Poets, your cunning devising
Of Rhimes that low Beauties o'er-rate;
They all, like the Stars at the rising
Of Phœbus, must yield to fair KATE.

We sing, and we think it our Duty
To admire the kind Blessings of Fate
That has favour'd the Earth with such Beauty,
As shines so divinely in KATE.

In her Smiles, in her Features and Glances,
The Graces shine forth in full State,
While the God of Love dangerously dances
On the Neck and white Bosom of KATE.

How straight, how well-turn'd, and gentile, are
Her Limbs! and how graceful her Gait!
Their Hearts made of Stone, or of Steel are,
That are not Adorers of KATE.

But ah! what a sad Palpatation
Feels the Heart, and how simple and blate
Must he look, almost dead with Vexation,
Whose Love is fixt hopeless on KATE?

Had I all the Charms of Adonis,
And Galleons freighted with Plate,
As SOLOMON wise; I'd think none is
So worthy of all, as dear KATE.

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Ah! had she for me the same Passion,
I'd tune the Lyre early and late;
The Sage's Song on his Circasian,
Should yield to my Sonnets on KATE.

His Pleasure each Moment shall blossom,
Unfading, gets her for his Mate;
He'll grasp every Bliss in his Bosom,
That's linked by Hymen to KATE.

Pale Envy may raise up false Stories,
And Hell may promp Malice and Hate;
But nothing shall sully their Glories,
Who are shielded with Vertue like KATE.

This Name, say ye, many a Lass has,
And t'apply it may raise a Debate;
But sure he as dull as an Ass is,
That cannot join COCHRAN to KATE.