A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,

Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:

And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop—
And now that I think on 't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning,
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

FROM

THE ORATORIO

OF

THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;

And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears ;

« An't please you,» quoth John, « I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses. »

Edinburgh, 1753.

EPITAPH

ON

EDWARD PURDON.'

HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack ;

He led such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's HENRIADE.

AN

ELEGY

ON

THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS MARY BLAIZE.

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word,—
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways,Unless when she was sinning.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her,—
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,—
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she lived a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.