When Worth and Beauty she forsakes,
We ought to pity her mistakes.
That Ladies lose what Coxcombs win,
Is more her sorrow than her sin:
And though she show'rs her favours down.
On blockheads who deserve her frown;
On Pride bestows a coach-and-six,
And plays a thousand silly tricks;
To Folly gives the prosp'ring gale,
Neglecting Wisdom in the vale;
Mounts Vice upon her golden throne,
While cottag'd Virtue weeps alone;
At random lends a title here,
Refusing ev'ry honour there;
Now gives the knave a lucky hit,
Plumps the dull rogue and starves the wit;
Though 't is confess'd she ev'ry hour
Discovers some abuse of power;
And though she blunder'd yester-night,
What doth it prove, but want of sight?
Poor Goddess! could she but have seen
Her Brackenbury's ardent mien,
Th' impassion'd glow, the anxious air,
That guard the hope-illnmin'd Fair:
O had she but the gift of eyes,
None else had borne away the prize!
The bandage has, in the case above hinted, been long since removed from the eyes of the blind and fickle goddess; who, had she been as celebrated for clearness of sight and steadiness of disposition as she has been, and ever will be, for their contraries, could not have directed her choice more wisely, or led her more directly to happiness in the characters of wife and mother.
Perhaps, in wisdom, 't is design'd
The Goddess should continue blind.
Fortune and Love restor❜d to sight,
What mischief had been done last night!
Both had resign'd their wheels and darts,
And gain'd their eyes-to lose their hearts.
Fir gift for widow, maid, and wife,
Accept these rules of female life,
Where Fiction lends new charms to Truth,
Combining both, as friends to youth;
The duty of your sex behold,
By birds, and beasts, and flow'rets told:
Here insects picach like sound divines,
Each tree a tree of knowledge shines.
A lesson for the coxcomb's heart
The flirting sparrow shall impart;
The tender turtle and the bec
Shall murmur love and industry;
In the lamb's bleat you 'll precepts find
To shun the wolves of human kind;
The generous horse will nobly show
What with your flatterers you should do;
The glow-worms of your sex how vain,
You learn from Philomela's strain;
The serious owl and simple goose
Harangue in verse for female use;
And the young lion bids you 'scape
All friendship with the human ape;
And every leaf and every bower
Unfolds a salutary power,
While all with one loud voice declare
What women should be-what you are.
EPITAPH ON MR. CATCHPOOLE,
WHAT though no titles speak thy modest worth,
Nor proud processions, nor the pomps of birth;
Nor trophied tombs, where labour'd emblems shine,
To mark, in gloomy state, an antient line
Of Kings and Heroes crumbling near the spot,
Where ev'ry folly but their Pride's forgot?
The glare of fortune, and the swell of blood,
Ill suits the decent grave that holds the good;
Ill suits, O parent shade! thy humble dust,
Which asks no flatt'ry from the breathing bust.
Far other power, no marble can impart,
Records the hist'ry of a Father's heart;
Far other incense shall thy ashes grace,
Ah, dear support and comfort of thy race!
Thine the fair homage filial Love supplies
In balmy tribute from thy children's sighs.
The bosom'd shrines that own thy deathless sway,
No moth shall perish, and no worm decay;
A Son's mute grief shall make thy fame more dear,
Thy virtues shine more graceful in the tear
That duteous bathes a Daughter's check, than all
The vaunting plumage of the gorgeous pall;
And more true honour from such offering springs
Than the mock woe which grandeur buys for Kings.
SOLILOQUY OF A HIGHWAYMAN.
The sport of fortune, famine, and mankind!
Compose thy griefs, Louisa-stop those tears;
Cry not so piteous-spare, oh spare, thy sire,
Nor quite distract thy mother-hapless babes!
What shall I do?-Whichever way I turn,
Scenes of incessant horror strike my eye:
Bare, barren walls gloom formidably round,
And not a ray of hope is left to cheer;
Sorrowing and sick, the partner of my fate
Lies on her bed of straw ;-beside her, sad,.
My children dear cling to her breast, and weep;
Or, prest by hunger, hunt each nook for food,
And, quite exhausted, climb these knees-in vain.
How ev'ry asking eye appeals at once!
Ah, looks too eloquent!-too plainly mark'd,
Ye ask for bread-I have no bread to give.
The wants of Nature, frugal as she is,
The little calls and comforts which support.
From day to day the feeble life of man,
No more, alas! thy father can supply!--
To me, the hand of heaven-born Charity
Hard as the season gripes-the neighbourhood,
Busy'd or pleas'd, o'erlook a stranger's woe;
Scarce knows the tenant of the adjoining house
What thin partitions shield him from the room
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