University of Virginia Library

Written in a Lady's Tunbridge Miscellanies.

Say, fair Orinda, ere these leaves you clos'd,
Was you to Pity, or to Sleep, dispos'd?
If from the Waters they deriv'd the lays,
That slander Beauty thus with grov'ling praise;
Who can, alas! the stroke of Steel withstand
In the Beau's stomach, or th' Assassin's hand?
Review each guilty Page, and then lament
The monstrous havock made by harden'd D***t;
The dismal fate of Montague attend,
Damn'd in Acrostic to a shameful end;
To ev'ry mangled Nymph vouchsafe a tear,
And think the Ghosts of murder'd Belles appear.
Should they attack this injur'd Troop again,
It would be, Falstaff like, to slay the Slain.
But let Orinda to those walks repair,
And in full bloom extend her conquests there;
A Face like yours, so charming and so new,
Would turn at once their killing pens on You,
Doom'd by more hands in wicked verse to fall,
Than butcher'd Cæsar in the Capitol.
But You, by sad example warn'd in time,
Consider and beware of Tunbridge rime;
Still as each Fop presumes to write or toast,
Avoid the Lover, but the Poet most;
And when the Daubers would Your likeness hit,
Conceal your Beauty, or impart your Wit.