Wrote on a Tomb-stone, where is laid the skull of a man.

WHY fta

ftart? The cafe is yours, or
will be foon,
Some years perhaps perhaps another moon.
Life in its utmoft fpan is but a breath,

And they who longeft dream, muft wake in death.
Like you I once thought ev'ry blifs fecure,
And gold of ev'ry ill the certain cure;
Till fteep'd in forrows, and befieg'd with pain,
Too late I found all earthly riches vain.
Disease with scorn threw back the fordid fee,
And Death still anfwer'd, What is gold to me?
Fame, titles, honours next I vainly fought,
And fools obfequious murs'd the childith thought.
Circled with brib'd applause and purchas'd praise,
I built on endless grandeur endless days;
But death awak'd me from a dream of pride,
And laid a prouder beggar by my fide.
Pleasure I courted, and obey'd my tafte,
The banquet fmil'd, and fmil'd the gay repaft.
A loathfome carcafe was my conftant care,
And worlds were ranfack'd but for me to fhare.
Go on, vain man, in luxury be firm,
Yet know I feafted, but to feast a worm.
Already fure lefs terrible I feem,

And you like me can own that life's a dream.
Whether that dream may boast the longest date,
Farewell, remember, left you wake too late.

Wrote on another Tomb-stone, where is laid the skull of a woman

BIOS not, ye fair, to own me; but be wife,

Nor turn from fad mortality your eyes.

Fame fays, and Fame alone can tell how true,
I once was lovely, and belov'd like you.

Where are my vot'ries where my flatt'rers now?
Gone with the fubject of each lover's vow.
Adieu the roses red, and lilies white,

Adieu thofe eyes, which made the darkness light
No more, alas! that coral lip is feen,
Nor longer breathes the fragrant gale between.
Turn from your mirror, and behold in me,
At once what thousands can't, or dare not fee.

Unvarnifa'd

Unvarnish'd I the real truth impart,
Nor here am plac'd but to direct the heart.
Survey me well-ye fair ones, and believe,
The grave may terrify-but can't deceive.
On beauty's fragile bafe no more depend,
Here youth and pleasure, age and forrow end;
Here drops the mafk-here fhuts the final scene,
Nor differs grave threefcore, from gay fifteen.
All prefs alike to that fame goal, the tomb,
Were wrinkled Laura fmiles at Chloe's bloom.
When coxcombs flatter, and when fools adore,
Learn here the leffon to be vain no more.
Yet virtue ftill against decay can arm,
And even lend mortality a charm.

Upon a Child of two years old crying.

FPoor little Charlotte dies!

NOR the departure of her love,

And has no way the truth to prove,
But fighs and wat'ry eyes.

Her tongue's too young fuch grief to tell,
As fwells her tender breaft;

"Twould pose thofe on Parnaffus dwell,
To have 'em all expreft.
Yet the leaft birds in tuneful notes,
Their forrows do repeat,

In warblings from melodious throats,
More moving than the great.

SONG, by a Lady.

EFLECTION, that makes mortals wife,

R Gives me the greatest pain;

The doubts that in my breast arise,

Of meeting thee again. Abfence, for ever foe to love,

The thought diftracts my mind: Left you a fairer nymph approve, And the like me be kind.

II.

Then to my humble cot retir'd,
To fearch and with for peace,

No more with mortal charms I'm fir'd,

But wait my kind release.

Secluded

Secluded far from human fight,
Attend my fleecy care,

But till my eyes are feal'd in night,
Thou fhalt partake my pray`r.
III.

My cottage on a rifing ground,
Near to a friendly fhade,
A ruin fhall my profpect bound,
With greens that never fade.
Some murm'ring brooks within my view,
That not too lifelefs flow,

Whilft I the paths of truth pursue,

Both time and chance will fhew.
IV.

But if thou bring'ft thy heart again,
Untainted and fincere,

I'll laugh at all my prefent pain,
And banish ev'ry fear.

Then like a fhip the tempeft toft,
I'll blefs the friendly fhore,
Forget the dangers that are paft,
But venture out no more.

SONG, written by a Lady.

I.

HEN the nymphs were contending for beauty and fame,

When to crown the high tranfports dear conqueft excites,
At court she was envy'd and toasted at White's.

II.

Yet take heed, all ye fair, how you triumph in vain,
For Sylvia, tho' alter'd from pretty to plain,.
Is now more engaging fince reafon took place,
Than when the poffefs'd the perfections of face.
IV.

Convinc'd she no more can coquet it and teaze,
Inftead of tormenting-fhe ftudies to please;
Makes truth and difcretion the guide of her life,
And tho' spoil d for a toaft, fhe's well form'd for a wife.

A Copy

A Copy of Verses, on seeing a boy walk on stilts.

L

EAVING the grammar for his play,
Forgetful of the rod;

Tott'ring on ftilts, through mire and dirt,
The fchool-boy ftrolls abroad.
Why does this innocent delight

Provoke the pedant's fpleen;

Look round the world, thou fool, and fee
The use of this machine.

The tricking statesman, prop'd by these,

His virtues boasts aloud;

And on his gilded stilts, fublime,

Steps o'er the murm'ring crowd,
Through fields of blood the general stalks,
And fame fits on his hilt;

The fword, or gun, at length bestows
An honourable ftilt.

When quite deferted by the Mufe,
The finking fonneteer

Hammers in vain a thoughtlefs verfe,

To pleafe Belinda's ear:
The mighty void of wit he ftops
With a fuccefstul chime;

On ftilts poetic rifes quick,

And leans upon his chime.

With well dilembled anguish, fee!
The canting rascal beg,
And by a counterfeit gain more

Than by a real leg.

Yet on the boy's instructive fport,

Is this contrivance built:

The fource from whence his gains arife,

What is it, but a ftilt?

Corinna fair, of ftature low,

Yet, this defect Supplies,

By heels, like ftilts, which may affifi,

The conqueft of her eyes.

See! in his fecond childhood faint,
The old man walks with pain; .
On crutches imitates his ftilts,

And acts the boy again.

A

-Nimium ne crede Colori.-VIRG.

When all things were endu'd with speech;
Nor plant, nor bird, nor fifh, nor brute,
Nor thing inanimate was mute:

Their converfe taught or thefe men lie-
Better than books, morality.

One grain more faith afford me now,
I ask but one more grain, I vow,
Speech on mere vifions to bestow.
Then you'll believe, that truth I tell,
That what I now relate befell.

Calm was the day, the fky was clear,
Save that a light cloud here and there,
Floating amid the azure plain,
Promis'd fome gentle fhowr's of rain;
Tho' Men are faithlefs, Clouds are true,
As by the fequel foon I'll fhew.
Sol from the zenith now departed,
Eastward his rays obliquely darted,
The clouds, late glories of the day,
By western winds are born away,
Till to the eaft each vapour blown,
In lucid fhowr's came gently down.
Now full oppos'd to Phoebus' rays,
Iris her vivid tints difplays;
A wat ry mirror spread below.
To her own eyes her beauties fhew.
I fcarce can think Narciffus ey'd
Reflected beauty with fuch pride;
Or modern belle for birth night drefs'd,
Raptures fo exquifite exprefs'd.
Some time enamour d o'er the lake
She hung, then-thus fhe fpake:

"Say,