How fhall I now my tale purfue, So paffing ftrange, fo paffing true?

When every bit from every hoard, Was brought and laid upon the board, Left some more urgent obligation Might interrupt her pleafing toil, And marring half her application, The promis'd hopes of profit spoil, Before the folds a fingle rag, Or takes a cap from board or bag, That nothing might her work prevent, (For fhe was now refolv'd to labour, With earnest hope and full intent To get the better of her neighbour) Into the garden she would go To do that necessary thing, Which must by all be done, you know, By rich and poor, and high and low, By Male and Female, Queen and King, She little dream'd a common action, Practis'd as duly as her pray'rs, Should prove fo tedious a tranfaction, Or coft her fuch a fea of cares.

In fhort the ftreams fo plenteous flow'd,
That in the dry and dusty weather,
She might have water'd all the road
For ten or twenty miles together.
What could fhe do? as it began,
Th' involuntary torrent ran.
Inftead of folding Cap or Mob,
So dreadful was this diftillation,
That from a fimple watering job,
She fear'd a general Inundation.
While for her Indiscretion's crime,
And coveting too great a store,
She made a river at a time,
Which fure was never done before.

A FAMILIAR LETTER OF RHIMES

то

A LADY.

YES-I could rifle grove and bow'r

And ftrip the beds of every flow'r,

And deck them in their fairest hue,
Merely to be out-blush'd by you.

The lily pale, by my direction,

Should fight the rofe for your complexion;
Or I could make up sweetest pofies,

Fit fragrance for the ladies' nofes,

Which drooping, on your breast reclining,
Should all be withering, dying, pining,
Which every songster can display,
I've more authorities than GAY;
Nay, I could teach the globe its duty
To pay all homage to your beauty,
And, wit's creative pow'r to show,
The very fire should mix with fnow;
Your eyes, that brandifh burning darts
To scorch and finge our tinder hearts,
Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,
And light them to their own undoing;

While all the fnow about your breaft
Should leave them hopeless and diftreft.

For those who rarely foar above
The art of coupling love and dove,
In their conceits and amorous fictions,
Are mighty fond of contradictions,
Above, in air; in earth, beneath;
And things that do, or do not breathe,
All have their parts, and separate place,
To paint the fair one's various grace.

Her cheek, her eye, her bofom show The rofe, the lily, diamond, fnow. Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains, Stars, rubies, funs, and moffy fountains, The poet gives them all a fhare

In the description of his fair.

She burns, the chills, fhe pierces hearts,

With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts.

And could we truft th' extravagancy

Of every poet's youthful fancy,

They'd make each nymph they love fo well, As cold as fnow, as hot as

-O gentle lady, spare your fright,
No horrid rhime fhall wound your fight:
I would not for the world be heard,
To utter fuch unfeemly word,
Which the politer parfon fears
To mention to politer ears.

But, could a female form be shown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where
every circumftance should meet

To make the poet's nymph compleat
Form'd to his fancy's utmost pitch,

She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Come then, O mufe, of trim conceit,
Mufe, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unfated ear

Of French or Tuscan SONNETEER,
Tak'ft up the fame unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in ditties quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or faint;
Whether thou dwell'st on ev'ry grace,
Which lights the world from LAURA's face,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide

On beauties which the nymph must hide;

For