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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,
To mufe, and spill her folitary tea,

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,"

Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after fev'n,

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;
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls.
So when your flave, at some dear, idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of rhyme)

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Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,

And while he feems to ftudy, thinks of you:
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of Partheniffa rife,

Gy pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite;
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rufh upon my fight;
Vext to be ftill in town, I knit my brow,

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;
Codrus writes on, and will for ever write;

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,
Nor on your lips diftill'd their golden dew,
Yet have we oft' difcover'd in their stead

A fwarm of drones, that buzz'd about your head.
When you, like Orpheus, ftrike the warbling lyre,
Attentive blocks stand round you, and admire.

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
(Tho' ne'er fo weighty) reach a wondrous height;
So, forc'd from engines, lead itself can fly,
And pondrous flugs move nimbly thro' the sky.
Sure Bavius copy'd Mavius to the full,

And Charilus taught Codrus to be dull;
Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o'er
This needlefs labour, and contend no more,

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-
fign, in which was painted the
Story of CEPHALUS and
PROCRIS, with the Motto,
Aura veni.

OME, gentle air! th' Eolian fhepherd faid,
While Procris panted in the fecret fhadé;

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,
Breathe on her lips, and in her bofom play!
In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found,
Nor could that fabled dart more furely wound:
Both gifts deftructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.

Yet guiltless too this bright deftroyer lives,

At random wounds, nor knows the wound fhe gives:
She views the story with attentive eyes,
And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

ΟΝ

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