Jadis si prompts à marcher, Jusqu'à Paris nous chercher? Cependant l'effroy redouble C'en est fait. Je viens d'entendre Battre un signal pour se rendre : De Namur pris à vous yeux. Would it not spoil his noble task, If any foolish Phrygian there is Impertinent enough to ask, How far Namur may be from Paris? Two stanzas more before we end, Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire; Leave them behind you, honest friend, And with your countrymen retire. 'Tis done. In sight of these commanders, Send, Fame, this news to Trianon, That Boufflers may new honours gain; O, William! may thy arms advance, *Count Guiscard was commander of the town of Namur, and Marshal Boufflers of the castle. †M. de Tourville commanded the French squadron which engaged Admiral Russell off La Hogue, in 1692. TO A LADY, SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND SPARE, generous Victor, spare the slave In the dispute, whate'er I said My heart was by my tongue belied, And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side. You, far from danger as from fear, Your eyes are always in the right. Why, fair-one, would you not rely I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspir'd: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Contemns the wreath too long delay'd, And, arm'd with more immediate pow'r, Calls cruel silence to her aid. Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turn'd his steed, DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth, And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth : Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return, In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn. Between you both, I unconcern'd stand by; Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry? THE FEMALE PHAETON. Taus Kitty, beautiful and young, And wild as colt untam'd, Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung, Inflam'd with rage at sad restraint, And sorely vex'd to play the saint, 'Shall I thumb holy books, confin'd 'Must Lady Jenny frisk about, At balls must she make all the rout, 'What has she better, pray, than I ? 'Dearest mamma, for once let me, 'I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, Make all her lovers fall: They'll grieve I was not loos'd before: She, I was loos'd at all.' Fondness prevail'd, mamma gave way: And set the world on fire. |