She went from op'ra, park, affembly, play, To morning walks, and pray'rs three hours a day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon," Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon; Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the squire; There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some fquire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is Whisk, whofe treat a toast in sack, Who vifits with a gun, prefents you birds, Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries-No words! Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whofe laughs are hearty, tho' his jefts are coarse, And loves you beft of all things--but his horse. In fome fair evening, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In penfive thought recall the fancy'd scene, See coronations rife on ev'ry green, Before you pass th' imaginary fights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights; While While the spread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes; Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he feems to ftudy, thinks of you: Gy pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite; Look fow'r, and hum a song as you may now. On TO THE AUTHOR of a POEM, ENTITULED, SUCCESSIO. B E gone, ye critics, and restrain your spite; The heaviest Mufe the fwifteft course has gone, As clocks run fafteft when moft lead is on. What tho' no bees around your cradle flew, A fwarm of drones, that buzz'd about your head. Wit, Wit, pafs'd thro' thee, no longer is the fame, As meat digefted takes diff'rent name; But sense must sure thy fafeft plunder be, Since no reprizals can be made on thee. Thus thou may'ft rife, and in thy daring flight And Charilus taught Codrus to be dull; Το prove a dull Succeffion to be true, Since 'tis enough we find it fo in you. On wwww ********* On a FAN of the Author's De- OME, gentle air! th' Eolian fhepherd faid, Come, gentle air, the fairer Delia cries, While at her feet her fwain expiring lies. Lo the glad gales o'er all her beauties ftray, Yet guiltless too this bright deftroyer lives, At random wounds, nor knows the wound fhe gives: ΟΝ |