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Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;
This when the various god has urg'd in vain,
OF ENGLISH POETS.
Done by the Author in his Youth.
WOMEN ben full of ragerie,
Yet swinken nat sans secresie. Thilke moral shall ye understond, From schoole-boy's tale of fayre Irelond: Which to the fennes hath him betake, To filch the gray ducke fro the lake. Right then, there passen by the way His aunt, and eke her daughters tway. Ducke in his trowsers hath he hent, Not to be spied of ladies gent. • But ho! our nephew, cryeth one, • Ho !' quoth another, cozen John;' And stoppen, and lough, and callen out,-This silly clerke full low doth lout: They asken that, and talken this, .Lo! here is coz, and here is miss.' But, as he glozeth with speeches soote, The ducke sore tickleth his erse roote: Fore-piece and buttons all to-brest, Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest. • Te-he,' cry'd ladies; clerke nought spake: Miss star'd; and gray duke cryeth 'Quaake.' «O moder, moder,' quoth the daughter. • Be thilke same thing maids longen a'ter? Bette is to pine on coals and chalke, Then trust on mon, whose yerde can talke.'
A narrow pass there is, with houses low;
squall: How can ye, mothers, vex your children so? Some play, some eat, some cack against the wall. And as they crouchen low, for bread and butter
call. And on the broken pavement, here and there, Doth many a stinking sprat and herring lie; A brandy and tobacco shop is near, And hens, and dogs, and hogs are feeding by; And here a sailor's jacket hangs to dry. At every door are sun-burnt matrons seen, Mending old nets to catch the scaly fry, Now singing shrill, and scolding eft between ; Scolds answer foul-mouth'd scolds; bad neighbour.
hood I ween.
Cod, whiting, oyster, mackrel, sprat, or plaice: There learn'd she speech from tongues that never
Slander beside her, like a magpie, chatters,
OF A LADY SINGING TO HER LUTE.
FAIR charmer, cease, nor make your voice's prize
your eyes: Well might, alas ! that threaten'd vessel fail, Which winds and lightning both at once assail. We were too blest with these enchanting lays, Which must be heavenly when an angel plays:
But killing charms your lover's death contrive,
ON A FAN OF THE AUTHOR'S DESIGN,
In which was painted the Story of Cephalus and
Procris, with the Motto, 'Aura veni.' 'COME, gentle air! th’ Æolian shepherd said,
While Procris panted in the secret shade; • Come, gentle air,' the fairer Delia cries, While at her feet her swain expiring lies. Lo, the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray, Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play! Ju Delia's hand this toy is fatal found, Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound; Both gifts destructive to the givers prove; Alike both lovers fall by those they love. Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives, At random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives; She views the story with attentive eyes, And pities Procris, while her lover dies.
AIN would my muse the flowery treasure sing,
And humble glories of the youthful spring : Where opening roses breathing sweets diffuse, And soft carnations shower their balmy dews;