WHEN I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this my silken twist,
For what other reason is't
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
-But thy bond-slave is my heart.
'Tis but silk that bindeth thee, Snap the thread, and thou art free; But 'tis otherwise with me:
I am bound, and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go:
If I could I would not so!
THAT which her slender waist confined,
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely dear.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
Did all within this circle move!
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.
TO A GLOVE.
Go, virgin kid, with lambent kiss,
Salute a virgin's hand;
Go, senseless thing, and reap a bliss
Thou dost not understand:
Go, for in thee, methinks, I find
(Though 'tis not half so bright)
An emblem of her beauteous mind,
By nature clad in white.
Securely thou may'st touch the fair,
Whom few securely can;
May'st press her breast, her lip, her hair,
Or wanton with her fan:
May'st coach it with her to and fro,
From masquerade to plays;
Ah! couldst thou hither come and go,
To tell me what she says!
Go then, and when the morning cold
Shall nip her lily arm,
Do thou (oh, might I be so bold!)
With kisses make it warm.
But when thy glossy beauty's o'er,
When all thy charms are gone,
Return to me, I'll love thee more
Than e'er I yet have done.
SUSAN'S COMPLAINT AND REMEDY.
As down in the meadows I chanced to pass,
O! there I beheld a young beautiful lass:
Her age, I am sure, it was scarcely fifteen;
And she on her head wore a garland of green:
Her lips were like rubies; and as for her eyes,
They sparkled like diamonds, or stars in the skies:
And, as for her voice, it was charming and clear,
As sadly she sung for the loss of her dear.
Why does my loved Billy prove false and unkind, Ah! why does he change, like the wavering wind, From one that is loyal in every degree?
Ah! why does he change to another from me?
Or does he take pleasure to torture me so?
Or does he delight in my sad overthrow?
Susannah will always prove true to her trust,
'Tis pity, loved Billy should be so unjust.
In the meadows as we were a making of hay,
There, there did we pass the soft minutes away;
O then was I kiss'd, as I sat on his knee,
No man in the world was so loving as he.
And as he went forth to hoe, harrow, and plough,
I milk'd him sweet syllabubs under my cow;
O then I was kiss'd, as I sat on his knee,
No man in the world was so loving as he.
But now he has left me, and Fanny, the fair,
Employs all his wishes, his thoughts, and his care;
And he kisses her lips, and she sits on his knee,
As he says all the soft things he once said to me.
But if she believe him, the false-hearted swain
Will leave her, and then she with me may complain:
For nought is more certain (believe, silly Sue),
Who once has been faithless, can never be true."
She finished her song, and rose up to be gone,
When over the meadow came jolly young John;
Who told her that she was the joy of his life,
And, if she'd consent, he would make her his wife;
She could not refuse him, to church so they went,
Young Billy's forgot, and young Susan's content.
Most men are like Billy, most women like Sue;
If men will be false, why should women be true?
Unknown.
ANSWER TO THE following QUESTION
OF MRS. HOWE.
WHAT is Prudery? 'Tis a beldam,
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
'Tis a fear that starts at shadows.
'Tis (no 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows.
'Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise;
Yet plays the fool before she dies,
'Tis an ugly envious shrew
That rails at dear Lepell and you.
PRUDENCE, Sir William, is a jewel-
Is clothes, and meat, and drink, and fuel!
Prudence! for man the very best of wives,
Whom bards have seldom met with in their lives;
Which certes does account for, in some measure,
Their grievous want of worldly treasure,
On which the greatest blockheads make their brags,
And showeth why we see, instead of lace
About the poet's back, with little grace,
Those fluttering, French-like followers-call'd rags.
Prudence, a sweet, obliging, curtsying lass,
Fit through this hypocritic world to pass!
Who kept at first a little peddling shop,
Swept her own room, twirled her own mop,
Wash'd her own clothes, caught her own fleas,
And rose to fame and fortune by degrees;
Who, when she enter❜d other people's houses,
'Till spoke to was as silent as a mouse is;
And of opinions tho' possess'd a store,
She left them with her pattens-at the door.
John Wolcot.
SONG BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
I SAID to my heart, between sleeping and waking,
Thou wild thing, that always art leaping or aching,
What black, brown, or fair, in what clime, in what nation,
By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation?
Thus accused, the wild thing gave this sober reply:-
See the heart without motion, though Celia pass by!
Not the beauty she has, or the wit that she borrows,
Gives the eye any joys, or the heart any sorrows.
When our Sappho appears, she whose wit's so refined,
I am forced to applaud with the rest of mankind;
Whatever she says, is with spirit and fire;
Every word I attend; but I only admire.
Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim:
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes;
Those stars of the world are too good for the skies.
But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair,
Her wit so genteel, without art, without care;
When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain,
The leapings, the achings, return all again.
O wonderful creature! a woman of reason!
Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season!
When so easy to guess who this angel should be,
Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she?
Lord Peterborough.
You, Damon, covet to possess
The nymph that sparkles in her dress;
Would rustling silks and hoops invade,
And clasp an armful of brocade.
Such raise the price of your delight
Who purchase both their red and white,
And, pirate-like, surprise your heart
With colours of adulterate art.
Me, Damon, me the maid enchants
Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints;
A modest blush adorns her face,
Her air an unaffected grace.
|