A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite
That waited on her still,
Had teas'd her all the tedious night
With visionary ill.

"Some shock of Fate is surely nigh,"

Exclaim'd the tim'rous maid: "What do these horrid dreams imply? My Cupid can't be dead!"

She call'd her Cupid by his name,
In dread of some mishap;
Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,

And jump'd into her lap.

And now the best of brittle ware
Her sumptuous table grac'd:
The gentle emblems of the fair,
In beauteous order plac'd!

The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd

To give the morning treat, When Dick, the country beau, appear'd, And, bowing, took his seat.

Well-chatting on, of that and this,
The maid revers'd her cup;
And, tempted by the forfeit kiss,
The bumpkin turn'd it up.

With transport he demands the prize;
Right fairly it was won!
With many a frown the fair denies:
Fond baits to draw him on !

A man must prove himself polite,
In such a case as this;

So Richard strives with all his might
To force the forfeit kiss.

But as he strove-O dire to tell! (And yet with grief I must) The table turn'd-the china fell, A heap of painted dust!

"O fatal purport of my dream!" The fair afflicted cry'd, "Occasion'd (I confess my shame) By childishness and pride!

"For in a kiss, or two, or three,

No mischief could be found! Then had I been more frank and free, My china had been sound."

TO MR.

YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace,
You whisper and dance with the fair;
But merit advances, 'tis your's to give place;
Stand off, and at distance revere:

For folly and fashion you barter good sense, (If sense ever fell to your share) 'Tis enough you could pert petit maitre 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.

ON

THE LATE ABSENCE OF MAY.
(WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1771.)

THE rooks in the neighbouring grove
For shelter cry all the long day;
Their huts in the branches above

Are cover'd no longer by May:
The birds that so cheerfully sung,

Are silent, or plaintive each tone! And, as they chirp, low, to their young, They want of their goddess bemoan.

No daisies, on carpets of green,

O'er Nature's cold bosom are spread! Not a sweet-briar sprig can be seen, To finish this wreath for head: my Some flow'rets, indeed, may be found, But these neither blooming nor gay; The fairest still sleep in the ground, And wait for the coming of May.

'December, perhaps, has purloin'd

Her rich, though fantastical geer; With Envy the Months may have join'd, And jostled her out of the year: Some shepherds, 'tis true, may repine, To see their lov'd gardens undress'd; But I-whilst my Phillida's mine, Shall always have May in my breast.

AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY.
SPOKE BY MR. DIGGS, AT EDINBURGH.

SAY, can the garter, or the star of state,
That on the vain, or on the vicious wait,
Such emblems, with such emphasis impart,
As an insignium near the Mason's heart?
Hail sacred Masonry, of source divine,
Unerring mistress of the faultless line,
Whose plumb of Truth, with never-failing sway,
Makes the join'd parts of Symmetry obey!

Hail to the Craft, at whose serene command The gentle Arts in glad obedience stand: Whose magic stroke bids fell Confusion cease, And to the finish'd Orders yield its place; Who calls Creation from the womb of Earth, And gives imperial cities glorious birth.

To works of art her merit 's not confin'd, She regulates the morals, squares the mind;

chat,

By her side as you saunter along;

Your taste-your complexion-your this-and your that,

Nor lisp out the end of your song.

And points the tide of passions where to roll;
On Virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule,
And forms her lodge an universal school;
Where Nature's mystic laws unfolded stand,
And Sense and Science, join'd, go hand in hand.

O may her social rules instructive spread, Till Truth erect her long-neglected head; Till, through deceitful Night she dart her ray, And beam, full glorious, in the blaze of day! Till man by virtuous maxims learn to move; Till all the peopled world her laws approve, And the whole human race be bound in brother's love.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

For faults that flow from habit more than nature, We'll blend, with honest mirth, some wholesome satire.

Now for our bark-the vessel's tight and able! New built!-new rigg'd!-[Pointing to the scenes] with canvass-mast-and cable! Let her not sink,—or be unkindly stranded, Before the moral freight be fairly landed! For though with heart and band we heave together, 'Tis your kind plaudit must command the weather: Nor halcyon seas,-nor gentle gales attend us, Till this fair circle with their smiles befriend us.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE AT YORK, AFTER IT WAS ELEGANTLY ENLARGED.

ONCE on a time his earthly rounds patrolling,

A PROLOGUE,

ON OPENING THE THEATRE AT WHITBY THE ENSUING SEASON.

Jove rambled near the cot of kind Philemon,
When night, attended by a tempest, came on;
And as the rain fell pattering, helter skelter,
The deity implor'd the hind for shelter.

Philemon plac'd his godship close beside him,
While goody Baucis made the fire that dry'd him;
With more benevolence than one that 's richer,
He spread the board, he fill'd the friendly pitcher;
And, fond to give his guest a meal of pleasure,
Sung a rough song, in his rude country measure.
Jove was so pleas'd with these good-natur'd sallies,
Philemon's cot he conjur'd to a palace.

Taste, like great Jupiter, came here to try us, (Oft from the boxes we perceiv'd her spy us) Whether she lik'd us and our warm endeavours, Whether she found that we deserv'd her favours, I know not: but 'tis certain she commanded Our humble theatre should be expanded.

The orders she pronounc'd were scarcely ended, But, like Philemon's house, the stage extended: And thus the friendly goddess bids me greet ye; "Tis in that circle [pointing to the boxes] she designs

to meet ye:

Pedants would fix her residence with heathens, But she prefers old York to Rome or Athens.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING AN ELEGANT LITTLE THEATRE AT WHITBY.

FROM Shakspeare-Jonson-Congreve-Rowe

and others

The laurel'd list, the true Parnassian brothers!
Hither we 're sent, by their supreme direction,
To court your favour, and to claim protection.

Our hopes are flatter'd with the fair's compliance;
Beauty and Wit were always in alliance!
Their mutual sway reforms the rude creation,
And Taste 's determin'd by their approbation.

The tragic Muse presents a stately mirror, Where Vice surveys her ugly form with terrour: And as the fiend departs-abash'd-discardedImperial Virtue 's with the palm rewarded.

The comic glass, from modern groups collected,
Shows fops and fools of every class-dissected:
It marks the fair coquet's unfaithful dealings,
And proves that haughty prudes may have their
failings,

And by his kind affections call'd for home;
When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries
'Twixt the blue bosoms-'twixt the seas and skies→→
When he beholds his native Albion near,
And the glad gale gives wings to his career,
What glowing ecstasies, by Fancy drest,
What filial sentiments expand his breast!
In the full happiness he forms on shore,
Doubts-dangers-and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!
Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!
With such warm ardours you behold us meet,
To lay, once more, our labours at your feet.

(Not without hopes your patronage will last) We bend with gratitude for favours past. That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter, Rode ev'ry gale-nor started ev'n a splinter; We bow to Beauty-('twas those smiles secur'd her) And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her. Still-still-extend your gentle cares to save her, That she may anchor long in Whitby's-favour.

Tom and Dick Topsail are above-I hear 'em, Tell 'em to keep a birth, and, Sal-sit near 'em : Sal's a smart lass—I'd hold a butt of stingo In three weeks' time she'd learn the playhouse lingo: She loves your plays, she understands their meaning, She calls 'em-MORAL RULES made entertaining: Your Shakspeare books, she knows 'em to a tittle; And I, myself (at sea) have read-a little.

At London, sirs, when Sal and I were courting, I tow'd her ev'ry night a playhouse sporting: Mass! I could like 'em and their whole 'paratus, But for their fiddlers and their damn'd sonatas ; Give me the merry sons of guts and rosin, That play-God save the King, and Nancy Daw[Looking about.

SOR.