This little piece is modern; but it is fo beautiful an imitation of the old poets, that it is prefumed every reader will fee it with pleasure in this collection.

THE IVY.

How yonder ivy courts the oak,
And clips it with a falfe embrace!
So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face.
And both our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would fwell its rind!
But, vainly trying, it decays.
So fares it with my fhackled mind,

So waftes the vigour of my days.
And foon our deaths will prove, I guefs,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

A lafs, forlorn for lack of grace,
My kindly pity first did move;
And, in a little moment's space,

This pity did engender love.

And now my death must prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

For now fhe rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilft, by a strange enchantment ftruck, My nobler will recoils in vain. And foon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its fhade,

The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her fuit gainsaid,

Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

THE END.

LONDON, PRINTED BY T. RICKABY,

1790.