The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Her golden tube, through which a fenfual world She judges of refinement by the eye, More golden than that age of fabled gold Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It fhall not grieve me, then, at once, when call'd To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verfe, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair, With that light tafk; but foon, to please her more, 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whofe approbation-profper even mine. AN EPISTLE ΤΟ JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. . DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago- One proof should serve-a reference to you. |