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I loved him; as I told you, I 31
Advised him— Here a stander-by
Twitched Damon gently by the cloak,
And thus, unwilling, silence broke;
‘Damon, 'tis time we should retire,
The man you talk with is Mat Prior.”
Patron thro' life, and from thy birth my friend,
Dorset! to thee this fable let me send:
With Damon's lightness weigh thy solid worth;
The foil is known to set the diamond forth:
Let the feigned tale this real moral give, 90
How many Damons, how few Dorsets, live!
1 THUs Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untamed,
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed:
2 Inflamed with rage at sad restraint,
Which wise mamma ordained;
And sorely vexed to play the saint,
Whilst wit and beauty reigned:
3 “Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails, forsaken:
Kitty’s for other things designed,
Or I am much mistaken.
4 “Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins;
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens!
"Lady Catharine Hyde, late Duchess of Queensberry.
‘What has she better, pray, than I,
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die;
Whilst I am scarce a toast!
6 “Dearest mamma! for once let me,
Unchained, my fortune try;
I’ll have my earl as well as she,'
Or know the reason why.
7 ‘I’ll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall,
They’ll grieve I was not loosed before;
She, I was loosed at all.’
8 Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
1 WHEN Kneller's works of various grace
Were to fair Venus shown;
The goddess spied in every face
Some features of her own.
2 Just so! (and pointing with her hand)
So shone, says she, my eyes”
When from two goddesses I gained
An apple for a prize.
3 When in the glass, and river too, My face I lately viewed, * The Earl of Essex married Lady Jane Hyde.—” Lady Ranelagh.
Such was I, if the glass be true,
If true the crystal flood.
4 In colours of this glorious kind!
Apelles painted me;
My hair thus flowing with the wind,
Sprung from my native sea.
5 Like this,” disordered, wild, forlorn, Big with ten thousand fears, Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn, Even beautiful in tears.
6 But, viewing Myra placed apart,
I fear, says she, I fear,
Apelles, that Sir Godfrey's art
Has far surpassed thine here.
7 Or I, a goddess of the skies,
By Myra am outdone,
And must resign to her the prize,
The apple which I won.
8 But, soon as she had Myra seen,
The sparkling eye, the look serene,
The gay and easy air;
9 With fiery emulation filled,
The wondering goddess cried,
Apelles must to Kneller yield,
Or Venus must to Hyde.
IMITATED, FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF ovid's
‘Nympha, precor, Penei, mane."—
ABATE, fair fugitive, abate thy speed,
Dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head;
With kind regard a panting lover view;
Less swiftly fly, less swiftly I’ll pursue:
Pathless, alas! and rugged is the ground,
Some stone may hurt thee, or some thorn may wound.
This care is for himself, as sure as death !
One mile has put the fellow out of breath;
He ‘ll never do, I’ll lead him toother round;
Washy he is, perhaps not over sound. 10
You fly, alas! not knowing whom you fly;
Nor ill-bred swain, nor rusty clown, am I:
I Claros isle and Tenedos command.
Thank you; I would not leave my native land.
What is to come, by certain arts I know.
Pish! Partridge' has as fair pretence as you.
APOLLO. Behold the beauties of my locks
That may be counterfeit, a Spanish wig.
Who cares for all that bush of curling hair,
Whilst your smooth chin is so extremely bare :
That never shall be Daphne's choice:
Syphacio had an admirable voice.
Of every herb I tell the mystic power;
To certain health the patient I restore;
Sent for, caressed
DAPHNE. Ours is a wholesome air; You'd better go to town, and practise there; For me, I’ve no obstructions to remove; 30 I'm pretty well; I thank your father Jove: And physic is a weak ally to love.
For learning famed, fine verses I compose.
So do your brother quacks and brother beaux.
Memorials only, and reviews, write prose.
From the bent yew I send the pointed reed,
Sure of its aim, and fatal in its speed.