Yet, Polly, could thy heart be kind, Thy sway within my breast: But hence, soft scenes of painted woe, Spite of the dear delight I'll go, Forget her, and be blest. D. CELORIMON. THE ADVICE, ADDRESSED TO MISS M----- R-----, OF BRISTOL. Revolving in their destin'd sphere, Ah! think, Maria, (e'er in grey Tho' now the captivated throng And all before you bow; Whilst unattentive to the strain, You hear the humble muse complain, Or wreath your frowning brow. Tho' poor Pitholeon's feeble line, Still violates your name: Tho' tales of passion meanly told, Yet, when that bloom, and dancing fire, In silver'd rev'rence shall expire, Ag'd, wrinkl'd, and defac'd: To keep one lover's flame alive, With Walpole's mental taste. Tho' rapture wantons in your air, Yet still one attribute divine, Should in your composition shine; Tho' num'rous swains before you fall; 'Tis empty admiration all, 'Tis all that you require: How momentary are their chains! you, how unsincere the strains, Like Of those, who but admire! Accept, for once, advice from me, No more for fools or empty beaux, Or butterflies pursue. Fly to your worthiest lover's arms, Or if Pitholeon suits your taste, His muse with tatter'd fragments grac❜d, D. VOL I. E The COPERNICAN SYSTEM. The sun revolving on his axis turns, way; |