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A S Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me,, she said ; but tell me true ;
The Nymph who could your heart subdue.
What sort of charms does she possess ?
Absolve me, fair-one ; I'll confess
With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love fits in open triumph crown'd:
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 ;
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight :
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smild, and Hebe spoke-
The gipsey, turning to her glass,
Too plainly Shew'd she knew the face ;
And which am I most like, she faid,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid ?
DENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade,
His lyre to mournful numbers strung,
Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid,
To Venus thus address’d the song :
Ten thousand little Loves around,
Listening, dwelt on every found.
Potent Venus, bid thy fon
Sound no more his dire alarms.
Youth on filent wings is flown :
Graver years come rolling on.
Spare my age, unfit for arms :
Safe and humble let me rest,
From all amorous care releas’d.
Potent Venus, bid thy son
Sound no more his dire alarms.
Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why do I all day lament and figh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh?
And why all night pursue her in my dreams,
Through flowery meads and crystal streams?
Thus sụng the Bard; and thus the Goddess spoke :
Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke:
Every state, and every age,
Shall own my rule, and fear my rage:
Compelld by me, thy Muse shall prove,
That all the world was born to love.
Bid thy destin'd lyre discover
Soft defire and gentle pain :
Often praise, and always love her:
Through her ear, her heart obtain.
Verse shall please, and fighs shall move her ;
- Cupid does with Phoebus reign.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID:
A TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH. OVID is the furest guide . :. !
You can name, to shew the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray.
TRUE MAI D
N o , no; for my virginity,
W When I lose that, fays Rose, I'll die :
Behind the elms, last night, cry'd Dick,
Rose, were you not extremely fick ?.
TEN months after Florimel happen'd to wed,
1 And was brought in a laudable manner to bed, She warbled her groans with so charming a voice, That one half of the parish was stunn'd with the noise. But, when Florimel deign’d to lie privately in, Ten months before she and her spouse were a-kin; She chose with such prudence her pangs to conceal, That her nurse, nay her midwife, scarce heard her once
[queal. Learn, husbands, from hence, for the peace of your
lives, That maids make not half such a tumult as wives.
İN his death-bed poor Lubin lies;
His spouse is in despair :
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
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 REASONABLE AFFLICTION.
FROM her own native France as old Alison past, T She reproach'd English Nell with neglect or with
malice, That the flattern had left, in the hurry and haste, Her lady's complexion and eye-brows at Calais.
H ER eye-brow-box one morning lost,
14 (The best of folks are oftenest crost)
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?
TN a dark corner of the house
Poor Helen fits, 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 e’en weep out her eyes.