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ON EDWARD PURDON.*
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
* Mr. Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he inlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word....
those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor....
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways....
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and sattins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew....
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her....
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead....
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more....
She had not died to-day.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight; Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.