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Miscellanies in Prose and Verse

By Anna Williams
Williams, Anna (1706-1783)

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ESSAYS IN VERSE AND PROSE.
  
The ANT.
  
A SONNET. TO A LADY OF INDISCREET VIRTUE.
  
To CLARA.
  
THE ROSE.
  
THE VALLEY OF THE MOON.
  
To MISS ---
  
The CAUTION.
  
To MYRTILIS.
  
[HERE Pollio lies, whose contemplations fir'd]
  
The HAPPY LIFE.
  
On a YOUNG LADY Confined to her Chamber by Sickness.
  
AN EPITAPH ON CLAUDY PHILLIPS, A MUSICIAN.
  
The WISH.
  
TO CLEORA ON HER ABSENCE.
  
The TRUE HERO.
  
VERSES addressed to Mr. RICHARDSON, ON HIS HISTORY of Sir CHARLES GRANDISON.
  
To Miss S. GREY. ON HER SINGING.
  
EPITAPH ON MR. WORRAL OF WORCESTERSHIRE.
  
To MARCUS.
  
Occasioned by the Marriage of MISS --- and Mr. ---.
  
AN ITALIAN SONG, SUNG BY MRS. MINGOTTI, At the Beginning of the late War, TRANSLATED.
  
On the DEATH of STEPHEN GREY, F. R. S.
  
On the DEATH of Sir ERASMUS PHILIPPS,
  
The EXCURSION.
  
An ODE.
  
An ODE, ON THE DEATH of the Patriot MARCUS.
  
THE PETITION.
  
REFLECTIONS
  
The HAPPY SOLITUDE, OR THE WISHED RETIREMENT.
  
BOILEAU to his GARDENER.
  
An ODE ON FRIENDSHIP.
  
To LAURA:
  
A TRANSLATION OF THE LATIN EPITAPH On Sir THOMAS HANMER.
  
RASSELAS to IMLAC.
  
An ODE.
  
To Miss ***.
  
The NUNNERY.
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THE UNINHABITED ISLAND. FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.
  
[argument]
 I. 
SCENE I.
 II. 
SCENE II.
 III. 
SCENE III.
 IV. 
SCENE IV.
 V. 
SCENE V.
 VI. 
SCENE VI.
 VII. 
SCENE VII.
 VIII. 
SCENE VIII.
 IX. 
SCENE IX.
 X. 
SCENE X.
 XI. 
SCENE XI.
 XII. 
SCENE XII.
 XIII. 
SCENE XIII.
  
SCENE THE LAST.

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SCENE VI.

SYLVIA
alone.
What have I seen? It cannot sure be man;
Its looks would then betray its native fierceness.
Men all are stern and treach'rous, and their mien
Must bear some semblance of the wicked heart.
Nor is't a woman, for the garb it wears
Is fashion'd not like mine or my Constantia's.
Whate'er it be, it has a pleasing form:
My Sister shall resolve me.—Ha! my feet
Refuse to move. O Heav'n! why do I sigh?
What means my beating heart! Can it be fear?
No; were it fear I should not find this pleasure;
162

Far diff'rent is the passion which I feel,
This unknown something flutt'ring in my breast.
New joys I find, and yet complain
Amidst a sweet and pleasing pain:
Those looks, alas! but vainly please;
What gives me pleasure, gives not ease.
I run a thousand fancies o'er,
Delightful hopes unfelt before!
And yet I know not whence I sigh,
Or what my distant hopes imply.
[Exit.

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