Imatges de pàgina
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"GALEN, the grave, officious SQUIRT, was

there,

"With fruitless grief and unavailing care;

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MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known By his red cloak and his fuperior frown: "And why, he cry'd, this grief and this despair, "You fhall again be well, again be fair ; "Believe my oath: (with that an oath he swore) "Falfe was his oath; my beauty is no more!

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"Ceafe, hapless maid, no more thy tale purfue, "Forfake mankind, and bid the world adieu ! "Monarchs and beauties rule with equal fway; 85 "All strive to serve, and glory to obey : "Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow, "Men mock the idol of their former vow. "Adieu! ye parks!-in some obfcure recefs, "Where gentle ftreams will weep at my diftrefs, 90 "Where no false friend will in my grief take part, "And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart; "There let me live in fome deferted place; “There hide in shades this loft inglorious face: "Ye operas, circles, I no more must view!

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My toilette, patches, all the world, adieu !” 色

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AT TAKING LEAVE OF A LADY, WHO WAS

READING NORRIS'S POEMS.

BY MISS MARY MASTER S.

MADAM,

ADAM, observe these melancholy tales,

*

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And fee how grief o'er generous minds prevails;
See there the reverend Norris drown'd in tears,
Robb'd of the joy of all his future years.
With ftrict attention read each tender line,
And as you read, think all his fuff'rings mine.
See here my grief in apteft terms expreft,
And view your self with juft perfection dreft:
Such was the nymph, to whom his tears were due,
And fuch his forrows, as I feel for you.

*Born 17..; dyed 17...

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AN EPISTLE TO LADY BOWYER.

BY MISS MARY JONES.

How much of paper's spoil'd! what floods of ink!
And yet how few, how very few can think!

The knack of writing is an easy trade;
But to think well requires

at least a head.

Once in an age, one genius may arise,

With wit well cultur'd, and with learning wife.
Like fome tall oak, behold his branches shoot!
No tender fcions fpringing at the root.
Whilft lofty Pope erects his laurell'd head,

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No lays, like mine, can live beneath his fhade. Io Nothing but weeds, and mofs, and shrubs are found. Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground? And yet you'd have me write !-For what? for whom?

To curl a fav'rite in a dreffing room?

To mend a candle when the fnuff's too fhort? 15 Or fave rappee for chamber-maids at court? Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame!

No, but you'd have me write- -to get a name. Alas! I'd live unknown, unenvy'd too;

Tis more than Pope, with all his wit, can do. 20 ..; dyed 1778.

* Born 17

'Tis more than you, with wit and beauty join'd,
A pleafing form, and a discerning mind.
The world and I are no fuch cordial friends;
I have my purpose, they their various ends.
I fay my pray'rs, and lead a sober life,

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Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus' wife.
What's fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent?]
If my friends know me honest, I'm content.

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Well, but the joy to fee my works in print! Myself too pictur'd in a mezzo-tint! The preface done, the dedication fram'd, With lies enough to make a lord asham'd ! Thus I step forth; an auth'ress in some fort. My patron's name? "O choose fome lord at court. "One that has money which he does not ufe, 35 "One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.

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For if you're nice, and cannot change your note, Regardless of the trimm'd, or untrimm'd coat; "Believe me, friend, you'll ne'er be worth a groat.".

Well then, to cut this mighty matter fhort, 40 I've neither friend, nor interest at court. Quite from St. James's to thy ftairs, Whitehall, I hardly know a creature, great or small, Except one maid of honour, * worth 'em all. I have no bus'nefs there. Let thofe attend 45: The courtly levee, or the courtly friend,

Who more than fate allows them dare to spend.

* Honourable mifs Lovelace.

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Or those whofe avarice, with much, craves more,
The penfion'd beggar, or the titled poor.

These are the thriving breed, the tiny great! 50
Slaves! wretched flaves! the journeymen of state!
Philofophers! who calmly bear disgrace,
Patriots! who fell their country for a place.

Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme? For thefe, like Bavius creep, or Glencus climb? 55 Shall I go late to reft, and early rise

To be the very creature I despise?

With face unmov'd, my poem in my hand,
Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand?
Perhaps my lady's maid, if not too proud,
Will stoop, you'll fay, to wink me from the croud.

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Will entertain me, till his lordship's dreft,

With what my lady eats, and how she rests:

How much she gave for fuch a birth-day gown,

And how she trampt to ev'ry shop in town.

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Sick at the news, impatient for my lord, I'm forc'd to hear, nay smile at ev'ry word. Tom raps at laft, His lordship begs to know "Your name, your bus'nefs."-Sir, I'm not a foe. I come to charm his lordship's lift'ning ears With verfes, foft as mufic of the fpheres. "Verfes!-Alas! his lordship feldom reads: "Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads; "But my good lord, as all the world can tell, "Reads not ev'n tradefmen's bills, and fcorns to fpell.

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