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Impoffible! Through walls of stone

Hunger will break, to fuck a bone.

Want, oft' in times of old, we read,
Made mothers on their infants feed;
And now constrain'd this matron mild,
To grow hard-hearted to her child.
Her darling child the pinch'd; he fquall'd;
In hafte the favourite footman 's call'd,
To pacify the peevish chit;

For who but he could do the feat?
He fmarting fore, refus'd to play;
But bade man Thomas beat mamina.
She, laughing, soon avow'd her flame
By various figns that want a name.
The lacquey faw, with trembling joy,
Gay humour dancing in her eye;
And ftrait with equal fury fir'd
Began th' attack; the dame retir'd :
And haply falling as she fled,
He beat her tell the lay for dead;
But (with new vigour for the ftrife)
Soon with a figh return'd to life.

Think ye fhe'd e'er forgive her son,
For what the naughty man had done?
She did; yet, fpited with his pain,
He founds th' alarm to charge again.
But, 'fquire, confult your potent ally,
Whether he's yet prepar'd to rally---
Yes; blood is hot on either fide;
Another combat must be try'd.

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She knew the foe could do no more,

Than at the first attack fhe bore;

So at his little malice fmil'd,

And cry'd, Come on!---To please the child..

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MY better felf, my heaven, my joy!

While thus imparadis'd I lie,

Transported in thy circling arms

With fresh variety of charms;

From fate I fcarce can think to crave

A blifs, but what in thee I have.

Twelve months, my dear, have past, since thou

Didft plight to me thy virgin vow ;

Twelve months in rapture spent! for they

Seem fhorter than St. Lucy's day :

A bright example we shall prove
Of latting matrimonial love.

Meanwhile, I beg the gods to grant

(The only favour that I want)
That I may not furvive, to fee
My happiness expire with thee,
O! fhould I lose my dearest dear,
By thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give my felf the fatal blow;
And wait thee to the world below.

When Wheedle thus to fpoufe in bed,
Spoke the best things he e'er had read;

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Madam furpriz'd, (you must fuppofe it)
Had lock'd a Templar in the closet:
A youth of pregnant parts, and worth,
To play at picquet, and fo forth---
This wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the curtain stole;

And peeping in, with folemn tone
Cry'd out, Oman! thy days are done :
The gods are fearful of the worst,
And fend me, Death, to fetch thee firft;
To fare their favourite from felf-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their order.

Hold, Sir, for fecond thoughts are best,
The husband cry'd; 'tis my request
With pleasure to prolong my life.---
Your meaning?---Pray, fir, take my wife.

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W

HAT, after all my art, will you demand,

Before the whole is read, the writer's hand?
And could you guefs from whom this letter came
Before you faw it fign'd with Sappho's name?
Don't wonder, fince I'm form'd for lyricks, why
The train is turn'd to plaintive elegy;

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I mourn my flighted love; alas! my lute,
And fprighly odes, would ill with forrow fuit.
I'm fcorch'd, I burn, like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze confpire.
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer flame at home.

No more my thoughts in even numbers flow,
Verfe beft befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once careft,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my breast.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy;
A fatal face to me, too cruel boy!
Enflav'd to thofe enchanting looks, that wear
The blush of Bacchus and Apollo's air
Affume the garb of either god, in thec
We every grace of either god may see;
Yet they confefs'd the power of female charms,
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;

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Though neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move
With melting airs the rigid foul to love.
To me the Mufe vouchfafes celeftial fire,
And my foft numbers glow with warm defire;
Alcæus and myself alike fhe crown'd,
For foftnefs I, and he for strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well fupplies:
My fhape I own is fhort, but yet my name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the voice of fame.

If I'm not fair, young Perfeus did adore
The fwarthy graces of the royal * Moor:
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind:
But if you'll Ay from Love's connubial rites
Till one as charming as yourself invites,
None of our fex can ever blefs your bed,
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.

Yet, when you read my verfe, you lik'd each line, And fwore no numbers were fo fweet as mine; I fang (that pleafing image ftill is plain, Such tender things we lovers long retain!) And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd, You with fierce kiffes ftifled what you prais'd. found, But in full tides of ecftafy were drown'd; When murmuring in the melting joys of love, Round yours my curling limbs began to move: But now the bright Sicilian maids adore The youth, who seem'd fo fond of me before: Send back, fend back my fugitive! for he Will vow to you the vows he made to me: That smooth deceiving tongue of his can charm The coyeft ear, the rougheft pride disarm. Oh, aid thy poetefs, great Queen of Love, Aufpicious to my growing paffion prove! Fortune was cruel to my tender age, And still purfues with unrelenting rage.

Some winning grace in every act you

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