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Still is the toiling hand of Care,

The drags and hacks repose;

But, hark, how through the vacant air

The rattling clamour glows!

The wanton miss and rakish blade,

Eager to join the masquerade,

Through streets and squares pursue their fun; Home in the dusk some bashful skim; Some, lingering late, their motley trim Exhibit to the sun.

To Dissipation's playful eye,
Such is the life for man,
And they that halt and they that fly

Should have no other plan.

Alike the busy and the gay

Should sport all night till break of day,
In Fashion's varying colours dress'd;
Till seized for debt through rude mischance,
Or chill'd by age, they leave the dance,
In gaol or dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

Some sober quiz reply,

Poor child of Folly! what art thou?

A Bond Street Butterfly!

Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets,
No taste hast thou of vernal sweets;

Enslaved by noise and dress and play,
Ere thou art to the country flown,
The sun will scorch, the spring be gone;
Then leave the town in May.



BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more, that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn:
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds or violet beds.

Still, to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the Graces' silken smiles:
She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth:
The cherry, dipp'd in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store
To which, in time, she added more;
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' Queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity, and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.


Apollo's wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
She sung; amazed the Sirens heard,
And to assert their voice appear'd;
She play'd; the Muses from the hill
Wonder'd who thus had stole their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And t'other day she stole my heart.

If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be my arms.



Now see my goddess, earthly born,
With smiling looks and sparkling eyes,
And with a bloom that shames the morn,
New risen in the eastern skies.

Furnish'd from Nature's boundless store,
And one of Pleasure's laughing train;
Stranger to all the wise explore,

She proves all far sought knowledge vain :

Untaught as Venus, when she found
Herself first floating on the sea,
And, laughing, begg'd the Tritons round,
For shame, to look some other way!

And unaccomplish'd all as Eve

In the first morning of her life,

When Adam blush'd, and ask'd her leave
To take her hand, and call her wife.

Yet there is something in her face,
Though she's unread in Plato's lore,
Might bring your Plato to disgrace
For leaving precepts taught before.


3 c

And there is magic in her eye

(Though she's unskill'd to conjure down The pale moon from the' affrighted sky)

Might draw Endymion from the moon.

And there are words which she can speak,
More easy to be understood,

More sweet than all the heathen Greek,
By Helen talk'd, when Paris woo'd.

And she has raptures in her power,
More worth than all the flattering claim
Of learning's unsubstantial dower,
In present praise or future fame.

Let me but kiss her soft warm hand,
And let me whisper in her ear,
What knowledge would not understand,
And wisdom would disdain to hear;

And let her listen to my tale,

And let one smiling blush arise (Bless'd omen that my vows prevail) I'll scorn the scorn of all the wise.



THOUGH never taught to measure space,
Nor versed in geometric lore,

The line of beauty I can trace,
And Chloe's finish'd form adore.

I cannot tell, a linguist sage,

And skill'd in critic ken profound,
The purport of each puzzling page,
Nor every tangled text expound;

But I can read, and run the while,
The lucid language of an eye,
The mystic meaning of a smile,
The soft compassion of a sigh.

I cannot give each light a name,
Which gems the expanse of ether blue,
Nor sing the physic and the fame
Of every herb which sips the dew;

But I of all the charms can speak,
Which round my Chloe's image fly,
Bloom in the blossom of her cheek,
Laugh in the lustre of her eye.

All politics in truth I hate,

Save those which two fond hearts betray, Nor any secrets know of state,

Save those of Cupid's silken sway.

Who guides the helm, who holds the scale, Who rules the land, and who the sea,

If Russia or the Turk prevail,

"Tis just the same, I own, to me.

I only know if Delia reign,

Or Lydia sway my subject heart; Whether I bear Melinda's chain,

Or 'neath my Chloe's anger smart.

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