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To the same, on her leaving the Town after the Corona ion,



As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever;
Thus from the world fair Zephalında flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent;
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went. 10
She went to plain work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from opera, park, assembly, play,

To morning walks, and pray'rs, three hours a-day;
To part her time, 'twixt reading and bohea,


To muse, and spill her solitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with a spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after sev❜n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack,
Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in sack;
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries---no words!



Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things---but his horse.

In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene, See corronations rise on ev'ry green:

Before you pass th' imaginary sights

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes,
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the streets abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;




Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,


Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,

Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight:
Vext to be still in Town, I knit my brow,
Look sour, and hum a tune, as you may now.


To Mr. John Moore, author of the celebrated worm


How much, egregious Moore! are we

Deceiv'd by shews and forms!


Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All human kind are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls, upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.


That woman is a worm we find,

E'er since our grandame's evil;


She first convers'd with her own kind,

That ancient worm the devil.

The learn'd themselves we bookworms name,
The blockhead is a slow-worm;

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Misers are muck-worms, silk-worms beaus,

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Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,

And greater gain would rise,

If thou couldst make the courtier void,
The worm that never dies!

O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,

Since worms shall eat ev'n thee.

Our fate thou only canst adjourn



Some few short years, no more!
Ev'n Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.


To Mrs. M. B. on her birth-day.


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OH! be thou bless'd with all that Heav'n can send,
Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend:
Not with those toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.
With added years, if life bring nothing new,
But like a sieve let ev'ry blessing thro',
Some joys still lost, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain some sad reflection more:
Is that a birth-day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.


Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear;
Till death, unfelt, that tender frame destroy,
In some soft dream, or ecstacy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.


To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his birth-day, 1742.

RESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one sin but poetry.

This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp still to his fingers.
The feast his tow'ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose, and the larks !
The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden !
And for his judgment, lo, a pudden!
Roast beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout,

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And grace, altho' a bard, devout.

May Tom, whom Heav'n sent down to raise


The price of prologues and of plays,

Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And scorn a rascal and a coach.


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