The ocean, when calm, may delight you; 'Tis thus when good humour diffuses TO MR. H YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace, Nor tease the sweet maid with your jargon of chat, Your taste-your complexion-your this-and your that, Nor lisp out the end of your song. For folly and fashion you barter good sense (If sense ever fell to your share), 'Tis enough you could pert petit maître commence, Laugh-loiter-and lie with an air. No end you can answer; affections you've none; Made only for prattle and play : Like a butterfly, bask'd for a while in the sun, You'll die undistinguish'd away. TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS, WRITTEN BY NOBODY'. ADVANCE to Fame-advance reveal'd! Dan Phoebus did with joy discern APOLLO, TO THE COMPANY AT HARROWGATE. FROM my critical court, at a quarterly meeting; To my Harrowgate subjects this embassy greeting: Whereas, from the veteran poets complaint isTheir works are no longer consider'd as dainties; And Shakspeare and Congreve, Farquhar and others, The tragical-comical-farcical brothers, Petition us oft for some gents and some ladies [is). (Our subjects, no doubt, since dramatic their trade We govern their stational stage by direction, And send them to you for your friendly protection; 1 Robertson, an actor belonging to the York company. 'Tis Apollo invites, with some ladies (the Muses), We denounce him immensely ill bred that refuses. Be it known, by the by, from our Helicon fountain, Enrich'd by the soil of Parnassus's mountain, Your Harrowgate water directly proceeding, Produces fine sense, with true taste and good breeding. [question: Talk of taste-none but heathens will call it in Yet some insolent wits might advance a sug gestion, While our deputies daily invite all the neighbours, But find no Mæcenas to smile on their labours. Thus far we've proceeded your favour to curry, And could tell ye much more, but we write in a hurry. SONGS. MAY EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. THE silver moon's enamour'd beam To beds of state go, balmly Sleep! Upon the green the virgins wait, Till morn unbar her golden gate, Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, And see-the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, "Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o'er the level mead, For see! the rosy May draws nigh; KITTY FELL. THE Courtly bard, in verse sublime, When larks forsake the flowery plain, And love's sweet numbers swell, Where woodbines twist their fragrant shade, And noontide beams repel, I'll rest me on the tufted mead, And sing of Kitty Fell. When moonbeams dance among the boughs I'll That lodge sweet Philomel, my pour with her tuneful vows, And pant for Kitty Fell. The pale-faced pedant burns his books; The sage forsakes his cell : The soldier smooths his martial looks, And sighs for Kitty Fell. |