But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied ; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--

From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor

Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please

With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways

Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-

When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short-all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal.

Z

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

ON

A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,

Struck blind by Lightning.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

THE GIFT.

TO

IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize

The gift who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let them,
If gems or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them when I get them.

I'll give—but not the fullblown rose,

Or rosebud more in fashion ;
Such shortlived offerings but disclose

A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee-to the devil.

STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

LINES,
INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE

OF APRIL 3, 1800.
E’EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew,

The budding rose its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view,

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day. So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, [cheek;

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her I gazed, I sigh’d, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion

SONG,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF

• SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.' Ah me! when shall I

marry

me? Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me. He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner: Not a look, not a smile shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

SONG.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears the’ approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection!

Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear,

SONG,

FROM

THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY,
The wretch condemn’d with life to part

Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain; Thou, like the world, the’ oppress’d oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing

In thee must ever find a foe.

STANZAS
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures

start. Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.