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 fquire;
Up to her godly garret after sev❜n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is Whisk, whofe treat a toast in fack,
Who visits with a gun, prefents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, 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 jests are coarse, And loves you best 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 fcene, See Coronations rife on ev'ry green,

Before you pass th' imaginary fights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights;

While the spread Fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, 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 rhime)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to ftudy, thinks of you:
Just when his fancy points your fprightly eyes,
Or fees the blush of Partheniffa rife,

G---y pats my fhoulder, and you vanish quite; Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vext to be ftill in town, I knit my brow,

Look fow'r, and hum a fong--as you may now.

On

On a FAN of the Author's defign, in which was painted the ftory of Cephalus and Procris, with the Motto, Aura veni.

C

Ome, gentle Air! th' Eolian fhepherd faid,

While Procris panted in the secret shade;
Come, gentle Air, the fairer Delia cries,
While at her feet her fwain expiring lies.
Lo the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray,
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 destructive to the givers prove;
Alike both lovers fall by those they love.

Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives,

At random wounds, nor knows the wound fhe gives: She views the story with attentive eyes,

And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

On SILENCE, in imitation of the ftyle of the late E. of R.

1.

İlence! coœval with Eternity;

S'

Thou wert, e'er nature first began to be,

'Twas one vaft nothing, all, and all flept faft in thee.

II.

Thine was the fway, e'er heav'n was form'd or earth, E'er fruitful Thought conceiv'd creation's birth, Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant forth. III.

Then various elements against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd,

And fram'd the clam'rous race of bufy human-kind.

IV.

The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low, Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show, And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

V.

But rebel Wit deferts thee oft' in vain;

Loft in the maze of words, he turns again,

And feeks a furer state, and courts thy gentler reign.
VI.

Afflicted fenfe thou kindly doft set free,
Opprefs'd with argumental tyranny,

And routed reafon finds a fafe retreat in thee:

With thee in private modeft dulness lies,

And in thy bofom lurks in thought's disguise; Thou varnisher of fools, and cheat of all the wife! VIII.

Yet thy indulgence is by both confeft;

Folly by thee lies fleeping in the breast,

And 'tis in thee at last that wifdom feeks for reft.

IX.

Silence, the knave's repute, the whore's good name, The only honour of the wifhing dame;

Thy very want of tongue makes thee a kind of Fame.

X.