226

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAO.

Let my obedience then excuse

My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse

From your aggriev'd Bow-wow;
If killing birds be such a crime,

(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, Sir, of killing Time

With verse address'd to me?

FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR.

NEWTON,

Late Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth.

[Dated May 28, 1782.,

Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't under.

stand, What the ladies and gentlemen see in your

face,

That you are in fashion all over the land,

And I am so much fallen into disgrace. Do but see what a pretty contemplative air

I give to the company-pray do but note 'emYou would think that the wise men of Greece

were all there, Or, at least would suppose them the wise men

of Gotham. My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown

roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;

8 FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON. There is nothing but sniv’ling and blowing of

noses, Such a noise as turns any man s stomach to

hear.

Then lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite

engaging,
The box in reply was heard plainly to say,

What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! If you have a little of merit to claim, You may think the sweet-smelling Virginian

weed, And I, if I scem to deserve any blame,

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our

own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,

But of any thing else they may choose to put

in us.

TO MARY.

(Azlumn of 1793.)

The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast,
Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see them daily weaker grow
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Try sight now seconds nt thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads, with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this hcart

My Mary'

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream ,
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary.

Thy silver locks once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient ligh:,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary'

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st,
Upheld by two, yet still thou lov’st,

My Mary'