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Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drags and hacks repose;
The rattling clamour glows!
Through streets and squares pursue their fun;
Exhibit to the sun.
To Dissipation's playful eye,
Such is the life for man,
Should have no other plan.
In Fashion's varying colours dress’d;
In gaol or dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober quiz reply,
A Bond Street Butterfly!
Enslaved by noise and dress and play,
THE FAIR THIEF.
BEFORE the urchin well could go,
Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And t'other day she stole my heart.
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
EARL OF EGREMONT.
PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN.
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,
For shame, to look some other way!
And unaccomplish'd all as Eve
In the first morning of her life,
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. VOL. V.
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,
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,
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,
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.