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TO TWO AGREEABLE SISTERS,
WHO DESIRED VERSES OF ME IN THE YEAR 1738.
BY A GENTLEMAN OF YORKSHIRE.
Cou'd I, like Pope, or Swift indite,
What pleasure, ladies, 'twere to write!
Like theirs, were my expressions fraught
With elegance and strength of thought;
No muse, no goddess I'd require
To string my harp and tune my lyre;
Eliza's charms, Eliza's name,
My lofty lays should give to fame:
And echo, each harmonious strain,
With wanton joy, repeat again;
In flowing numbers while I trace
The beauties of her matchless face;
The virtues of her spotless soul,
Which dart a lustre on the whole;
Which, when the rose and lily fade,
Will still embalm the lovely maid;
Will still endear the marriage state,
When other charms submit to fate.
What pleasure, ladies, 'twere to write!
Like theirs, were my expressions fraught
With elegance and strength of thought;
No muse, no goddess I'd require
To string my harp and tune my lyre;
Eliza's charms, Eliza's name,
My lofty lays should give to fame:
And echo, each harmonious strain,
With wanton joy, repeat again;
In flowing numbers while I trace
The beauties of her matchless face;
The virtues of her spotless soul,
Which dart a lustre on the whole;
Which, when the rose and lily fade,
Will still embalm the lovely maid;
Will still endear the marriage state,
When other charms submit to fate.
Nor should the other darling fair
Be less the poet's theme and care;
Bright Patsy! whose engaging face,
The graces all conspire to grace;
Less fair the celebrated maid,
That whilom on Tweed's borders stray'd;
The love and wonder of each swain,
Who tripp'd it o'er the daisied plain.
No ruffling gusts, no guilty joy,
Her settled calm of mind destroy;
But in her air, and lovely mien,
The beauties of her soul are seen.
Be less the poet's theme and care;
Bright Patsy! whose engaging face,
The graces all conspire to grace;
Less fair the celebrated maid,
That whilom on Tweed's borders stray'd;
156
Who tripp'd it o'er the daisied plain.
No ruffling gusts, no guilty joy,
Her settled calm of mind destroy;
But in her air, and lovely mien,
The beauties of her soul are seen.
Happy the swain, yea, doubly blest,
Of either beauteous fair possest!
Of either beauteous fair possest!
T. P.
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