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You then despise the tinsel glittering snare ;
Think vile mankind below a serious care.
Life is too short for any distant aim ;
And cold the dull reward of future fame :
Be happy then while yet you have to live ;
And love is all the blessing heav'n can give.
Fir'd by new passion you address the fair ;
Survey the opera as a gay parterre :
Young Cloe's bloom had made you certain prize,
But for a side-long glance from Celia's eyes :
Your beating heart acknowledges her power ;
Your eager eyes her lovely form devour
You feel the poifon swelling in your breaft,
And all your soul by fond defire poffess’d.
In dying fighs a long three hours are pait;
To fome assembly with impatient haste,
With trembling hope, and doubtful fear you move,
Resolv'd to tempt your fatę, and own your love :
But there Belinda meets you on the stairs,
Easy her shape, attracting all her airs ;
A smile she gives, and with a smile can wound;
Her melting voice has mufick in the found;

motion wears refiftless grace;
Wit in her mien, and pleasure in her face :
Here while you vow eternity of love,
Cloe and Celia unregarded move.

Thus on the fands of Afric's burning plains,
However deeply made, no long impress remains;



The lightest leaf can leave its figure there;
The ftrongest form is scattered by the air.
So yielding the warm temper of your mind,
So touch'd by ev'ry eye, fo toss'd by wind;
Oh ! how unlike the heav'n my soul design'd!
Unseen, unheard, the throng around me move ;
Not wishing praise, insensible of love :
No whispers foften, nor no beauties fire ;
Careless I see the dance, and coldly hear the lyre.

So num'rous herds are driven o'er the rock;
No print is left of all the passing flock:
So fings the wind around the folid ftone:
So vainly beat the waves with fruitless moan.
Tedious the toil, and great the workman's care,
Who dare attempt to fix impressions there :
But should fome fwain more skilful than the rest,
Engrave his name upon this marble breaft,
Not rolling ages cou'd deface that name;
Thro' all the storms of life 'tis still the fame :
Tho' length of years with moss may fade the ground,
Deep, tho' unfeen, remains the secret wound.

ЕРІ. .

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HAT cou'd luxurious woman wish for more,

To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r ?
Their every wish was in this Mary seen,
Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.
Vain useless bleslings with ill conduct join'd!
Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind.
Whatever poets write, and lovers vow,
Beauty, what poor omnipotence haft thou !

Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power, and laws;
How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause!
Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize,
Contemn the idle flatt’ters of your eyes.
The brightest object shines but while 'tis new;
That influence lessens by familiar view.
Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway,
All ftrive to serve, and glory to obey ;
Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow
Men mock the idol of their former vow.


Two great examples have been shown to-day,
To what fure ruin paffion does betray ;
What long repentance to short joys is due ;
When reason rules, what glory does ensue.

you will love, love like Eliza then ;
Love for amusement, like those traytors men.
Think that the pastime of a leisure hour
She favour'd oft—but never shar'd her pow'r.

The traveller by desart wolves pursu'd,
If by his art the favage foe's subdu'd,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Tho' victory was gain’d by needful fraud.
Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case ;
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face.
By pallion fir'd, and not with-held by shame,
They cruel hunters are; we, trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well)
They burn to triumph, and they figh to tell :
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.
Believe me, 'tis by far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force :
Hear, but be faithful to your intreft ftill :

your hearts—then fool with whom you will,


Vol. I.




Written to Lady J.


By the Same.


HY will Delia thus retire,

And idly languish life away?
While the fighing crowd admire,
'Tis too soon for hartfhorn tea.

All those dismal looks and fretting

Cannot Damon's life restore ;
Long ago the worms have eat him,
You can never see him more.

Once again consult your toilette,

In the glass your face review :
So much weeping soon will spoil it,

And no spring your charms renew.

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IV. I, like

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