Would Suky fcorn'd atone my crime?

And would my Bruny own her flave è

B. Though brighter he than blazing star,
More fickle thou than wind or fea,
With thee, my kind returning dear,
I'd live, contented die with thee.

A DAINTY NEW BALLAD:

Occafioned by a Clergyman's Widow of Seventy Years of Age, being married to a young Exciseman.

T

HERE liv'd in our good town,

A relict of the gown,

A chafte and humble dame; Who, when her man of God

Was cold as any clod,

Dropt many a tear in vain.

But now, good people, learn all,
No grief can be eternal;

Nor is it meet, I ween,
That folks should always whimper,
There is a time to fimper,
As quickly shall be seen.

For Love that little urchin,
About this widow lurching,
Had flily fix'd his dart;

The filent creeping flame

Boil'd fore in every vein,

And glow'd about her heart.

So,

R 4

So, when a pipe we smoke,

And from the flint provoke

The sparks that twinkling play;
The touchwood old and dry
With heat begins to fry,

And gently waftes away.

With art the patch'd up nature,
Reforming every feature,
Reftoring every grace:
To gratify her pride,

She ftopp'd each cranny wide,
And painted o'er her face.

Nor red, nor eke the white,
Was wanting to invite,

Nor coral lips that pout;
But, oh! in vain the tries,
With darts to arm those eyes
That dimly fquint about.

With order and with care,
Her pyramid of hair

Sublimely mounts the sky;
And, that the might prevail,
She bolfter'd up her tail,

With rumps three ftories high.

With many a rich perfume,
She purify'd her room,

As there was need, no doubt;

For

For on these warm occafions,

Offenfive exhalations

Are apt to fly about.

On beds of roses lying,
Expecting, wishing, dying,
Thus languifh'd for her love
The Cyprian Queen of old,
As merry bards have told,
All in a myrtle grove.

In pale of mother church,
She fondly hop'd to lurch,

But, ah me! hop'd in vain;
No doctor could be found,
Who this her cafe profound
Durft venture to explain.

At length a youth full smart,
Who oft by magic art

Had div'd in many a hole;

Or kilderkin, or tun,
Or hogfhead, 'twas all one,
He'd found it with his pole.

His art, and eke his face,
So fuited to her cafe,

Engag'd her love-fick heart;
Quoth the, My pretty Diver,
With thee I'll live for ever,
And from thee never part.

For

TIME

To blatt Canidia's face,

(Which once 'twas rapture to behold)

With wrinkles and difgrace.

Not fo in blooming beauty bright,
Each envying virgin's pattern,
She reign'd with undisputed right
A *priestess of St. Cattern.

She was bar-keeper at the Cattern-wheel in Oxford.

Each

ach sprightly foph, each brawny thrum, Spent his first runnings here;

nd hoary doctors dribbling come,
To languish and defpair.

ow at her feet the proftrate arts
Their humble homage pay;
To her the tyrant of their hearts,
Each bard directs his lay.

Sut now, when impotent to please,
Alas! fhe would be doing;
Reversing Nature's wife decrees,
She goes herself a-wooing.

Though brib'd with all her pelf, the swain

Moft aukwardly complies;

Prefs'd to bear arms, he ferves in pain,

Or from his colours flies.

So does an ivy, green when old,
And sprouting in decay;
In juicelefs, joyless arms infold

A fapling young and gay.

The thriving plant, if better join'd,
Would emulate the skies;

But, to that wither'd trunk confin'd,
Grows fickly, pines, and dies.

HUNT