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Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crowned:
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray,
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say, how red, how round, how sweet; 20
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke-
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly showed she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?

LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID.1

Ovip is the surest guide

You can name to show the way
To

any woman, maid, or bride,

Who resolves to go astray. 1 Translated from a Madrigal of Gilbert, sur l’Art d’Aimer d'Ovide.

A REASONABLE AFFLICTION.

1 On his death-bed poor Lubin lies;

His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,

They both express their care.

2 A different cause, says parson Sly,

The same effect may give;
Poor Lubin fears that he shall die;

His wife, that he may live.

ANOTHER

From her own native France as old Alison past,
She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice,
That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste,
Her lady's complexion and eye-brows at Calais.

ANOTHER.

Her eye-brow box one morning lost,
(The best of folks are oftenest crossed)
Sad Helen thus to Jenny said,
Her careless but afflicted maid,
Put me to bed then, wretched Jane;
Alas! when shall I rise again!
I can behold no mortal now;
For what's an eye without a brow.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

In a dark corner of the house

Poor Helen sits, and sobs and cries;
She will not see her loving spouse,

Nor her more dear picquet-allies: Unless she find her eye-brows,

She'll even weep out her eyes.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

1 HELEN was just slipt into bed:

Her eye-brows on the toilet lay: Away the kitten with them fled,

As fees belonging to her prey.

2 For this misfortune careless Jane,

Assure yourself, was loudly rated; And madam, getting up again,

With her own hand the mouse-trap baited.

3 On little things, as sages write,

Depends our human joy or sorrow; If we don't catch a mouse to-night,

Alas! no eye-brows for to-morrow.

PHILLIS'S AGE.

1 How old may Phillis be, you ask,

Whose beauty thus all hearts engages; To answer is no easy task,

For she has really two ages.

2 Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays,

Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face,

And Phillis is but twenty-one.

3 Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,

At night astronomers agree,
The evening has the day belied,

And Phillis is some forty-three.

FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.

What a frail thing is beauty! says Baron Le Cras, Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass;

And scarcely had he spoke it; When she more confused as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage proved the maxim too true:

She dropped the eye, and broke it.

A CRITICAL MOMENT. How capricious were Nature and Art to poor Nell! She was painting her cheeks at the time her nose fell.

AN EPIGRAM.

WRITTEN TO THE DUKE DE NOALLES.

1 Vain the concern which you express, That uncalled Alard will possess

Your house and coach, both day and night, And that Macbeth was haunted less

By Banquo's restless sprite.
2 With fifteen thousand pounds a year,
Do you complain, you cannot bear

An ill, you may so soon retrieve?
Good Alard, faith, is modester

By much, than you believe.

3 Lend him but fifty louis-d'or,
And
you

shall never see him more:
Take the advice, probatum est.
Why do the gods indulge our store,

But to secure our rest?

EPILOGUE TO PHÆDRA AND HIPPOLITUS.

BY MR EDMUND SMITH.

SPOKEN BY MRS OLDFIELD,

WHO ACTED ISMENA.

10

LADIES, to-night your pity I implore
For one, who never troubled

you

before;
An Oxford man, extremely read in Greek,
Who from Euripides makes Phædra speak;
And comes to town to let us moderns know,
How women loved two thousand years ago.

If that be all, said I, even burn your play;
Egad! we know all that, as well as they!
Show us the youthful, handsome charioteer,
Firm in his seat, and running his career;
Our souls would kindle with as generous flames,
As e'er inspired the ancient Grecian dames:
Every Ismena would resign her breast;
And every dear Hippolitus be blessed.

But, as it is, six flouncing Flanders mares
Are e'en as good as any two of theirs :
And if Hippolitus can but contrive
To buy the gilded chariot, John can drive.

Now of the bustle you have seen to-day, And Phadra's morals in this scholar's play, 1 Acted 1708. The prologue by Addison was received coldly. Smith, alias · Rag,' was a sad scamp-born 1668, died 1710.-See Johnson's 'Poets.'

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