University of Virginia Library

THE RECANTATION.

AN ODE.

An EPITAPH.

God works Wonders now and then;
Here lies a Lawyer, and an honest Man.

ANSWERED.

This is a mere Law-Quibble, not a Wonder:
Here lies a Lawyer, and—his Client under.

LINES, PRESENTED WITH A ROSE-BUD, TO A VERY YOUNG LADY,

Who appeared at the FANCY-BALL, at the Castle, in the Character of Flora.

ON THREE BEAUTIFUL SISTERS, AT THE FANCY-BALL, FRIDAY, March 16th, 1769.

RESPONSES OF THE PRIESTESS OF APOLLO, AT THE FANCY-BALL.

STANZAS, WRITTEN On a blank Leaf of WEBB's Beauties of Poetry, Painting, &c.

THE LAST BOTTLE. WITH A RECEIPT for making PUNCH.

One Bottle of Arrack, the last of my Store,
(For your Sake, and mine, I could wish it were more)
From the Cave, where quite bury'd in Saw-dust it lay,
Restor'd once again to the Light of the Day,
To the Friends of the Muse, whose benevolent Care
Our Labours rewards with a Plumb, or a Pear,
The Poet presents—and, lest you mistake it,
He sends you, moreover, Instructions to make it—
As the Bottle is large, and the Liquor is rough,
Four Lemons, I doubt, will be little enough:
For Sugar, you know it depends upon Taste;
But 'twill take, in my Mind, Half a Pound at the least:
Let your Water be boil'd; and, when it is cool,
Pour in just two Quarts—an infallible Rule—
Then stir it three Times; the Business is done.
(If you have not a Ladle, make use of a Spoon)
Fill your Glasses all round; and—you know what should follow—
Long Life, and good Health to the Sons of Apollo!

To a Lady.

While brisk Champagne, and those bright Eyes,
By Turns my Joys improve;
Love, changing Sides, the Bumper plies,
And Bacchus glows with Love.

Another.

[While thro' my Veins brisk Claret flows]

While thro' my Veins brisk Claret flows,
And I behold those Eyes,
Cupid an arrant Drunkard grows,
And Bacchus love-sick lies.

THE CHOICE OF A WIFE.

THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

A BALLAD.

SYLVIA: A CHARACTER.

For every Station of a Woman fit,
Sylvia has Spirit, sparkling Eyes, and Wit:
Nor let her Want of Stature raise a Strife;
In less of Matter there is more of Life.
Thus, Diamonds, lessen'd into Brilliants, rise,
And gain in Lustre, what they lose in Size.
Once, we must own, deluded by the Throng,
She lean'd to Folly; but she lean'd not long:
Prancing, and pert, she bounc'd into the World;
She talk'd, she titter'd, toss'd the Head, and curl'd;
By Nature lively, she grew wild by Art;
(‘For, sure, it was so pretty to be smart:’)
But, soon recovering, flush'd with Mirth, and Youth,
Contented she came Home to Sense, and Truth;
Of every foreign, idle Grace disarm'd,
She grew herself; she reason'd, and she charm'd:
Yet, though she reasons, she can trifle still,
With equal Spirit, and superior Skill;
Though with some Change of Manners, and of Stiles;
(For Folly laughs, but Wisdom only smiles)
The Pertness fled, the Sprightliness remains;
She, then, diverted; now, she entertains;
Not at her Neighbours', but her own Expence,
With lively Humour, and with easy Sense;
With nice Reflections on her present cast,
Or graceful Censures on her Follies past.
Shy to decide, though ready to discern,
Fond to improve, and not asham'd to learn,
For Reason, with the Charms of Fancy grac'd,
She feels a Relish, and she shews a Taste:
Her Life, by Principles, and Truth, she steers;
Not turn'd by every Whistle that she hears,
Like Half the Sex, from Matrons down to Girls,
With Eyes that twinkle, and an Head that twirls,
With Soul and Body every in a Dance,
The Slave of Fashion, or the Sport of Chance;
Now, light, and giddy; now, demure, and prim;
All Pride, and Passion, Prejudice, and Whim:
Her Heart, still regularly taught to beat,
Is warm with Nature's, not with Passion's Heat;
With her own Sorrows apt to swell, or flow
With generous Softness for another's Woe,
Which Friendship, Piety, Compassion move,
And every tender Sentiment, but Love:
Yet Love may get Admittance, too, but slow;
As yet a Stranger, only, not a Foe:
Her Heart is to be won; but, at her Price,
And is not so insensible, as nice.
Thus, every Virtue shining in its Place,
And, every Virtue follow'd by a Grace,
She claims our Praises. Are our Praises due?
The Picture charms us—Is the Picture true?
All Poets rant; their Fancy is their Law;
They colour brightly what they falsely draw:
Or, grant that one in twenty speaks his Mind,
He may not flatter; but, he may be blind:
Some praise with Art, that cannot judge with Skill;
And many flourish well, who reason ill.
Sylvia, your Worth the Writer's Fame ensures:
He drew the Picture; make that Picture your's:
Shew to the Women, how their Glories sink;
Shew to the Men, that Women dare to think;
'Till all confess, discovering whom I paint,
The Image faithful, though the Copy faint.

ELEGIAC STANZAS, To the Memory of A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,

Who died in the nineteenth Year of his Age.

LINES, PRESENTED To a YOUNG LADY, with a SILVER THIMBLE.

A dame the Abbey's Tombs contain,
By Puncture of a Needle slain.
Lest thee so dire a Fate betide,
This Armour, Nancy, I provide:
Nor wonder, that so small a Cause
Should open Death's devouring Jaws;
The Wound, my Heart receiv'd from you,
Is full as small, and fatal, too.

THE CHOICE OF A HUSBAND. WRITTEN BY A YOUNG LADY.

THE HUE AND CRY.

A SECOND PROCLAMATION.

In ANSWER to the FOREGOING.

THE HAPPY UNION.

TWO LOVE ELEGIES.

ELEGY I.

['Tis Night, dead Night; and o'er the Plain]

ELEGY II.

[When, young, Life's Journey I began]

THE EPITAPH.

[Consign'd to Dust, beneath this Stone]

STANZAS, To ------, with the FOREGOING ELEGIES.