HEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe 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.


WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay;
The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread :
The Royal Game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew'd his lamp-black face;
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

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Intended to have been sung by Miss Hardcastle in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer."

H 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.


On the taking of Quebec.

AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O 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 vigor fled,

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


On Dr. Parnell.

THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to Truth thro' Pleasure's flowery way!

Celestial themes confest his tuneful aid;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.


On Edwar



ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this worldI don't think he'll wish to come back.


On the Glory of her Sex.

Mrs. Mary Blaize.

GOOD people all with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good wordFrom 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.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity-College,Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers, He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

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She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wond'rous 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,

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not dy'd to-day.


WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' 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.



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 glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.


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

In thee must ever find a foe.

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