The man, whofe virtues are more felt than seen, Her golden tube, through which a sensual world More golden than that age of fabled gold Beneath the turf, that I have often trod. It fhall not grieve me then, that once, when called To drefs a Sofa with the flowers of verfe, I played 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, whofe eye is on the heart; Whose frown can disappoint the proudeft ftrain, Whofe approbation-profper even mine. AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago- |