Short Poems

Forgive me, Chloris! nor my rudeness blame,
Strange, as it is, this frost has bred a flame!
Driv'n from your breast, I glow, with new desire,
And melt, like straggling snow , that falls on fire .
Had you been black, you might have shun'd this blow;
For diff'rent colours wou'd each other show,
But, oh! you're fair , and cold , and soft , and every way like snow .

Say not you love, unlesse you do,
For lying will not profit you. Ladie:
Sir, I do love with love most true:
I will not love, unlesse't be you. Ra:
You say I lie, I say you lie, choose you whether,
But if we both lie, lets lie both together.

OF THE GUARDS IN HYDE-PARK .

Let meaner beauties conquer fingly still,
But haughty Mira will by thousands kill;
Thro' armed ranks triumphantly she drives,
And with one glance commands a thousand lives:
The trembling heroes nor resist nor fly,
But at the head of all their squadrons die.

When we'd exalt some heav'nly fair,
To some bright goddess we compare;
Minerva wisdom, Juno grace,
And Venus furnishes the face.
In royal Anne's bright form is seen
What comprehends them all — the Queen.

UPON A DRINKING-GLASS

The gods of Wine, and Wit, and Love, prepare,
With cheerful bowls, to celebrate the fair;
Love is enjoin'd to name his fav'rite toast,
And Hare's the goddess that delights him most:
Phaebus approves, and bids the trumpets sound,
And Bacchus, in a bumper, sends it round.

How apt are men to lye! how dare they say,
When life is gone, all learning fleets away?
Since this glad grave holds Chloe , fair, and young,
Who, where she is, first learnt to hold her tongue.

Alas you know not what you bid me do!
He, who loves well, can ne'er distinguish, too.
To paint you, justly, asks cool reason — I
Thro' passion's faithless glass, should look too high.
If, when I trace you, absent, killing fair!
I catch the aguish influence of despair;
To search you, near, my soul cou'd ne'er endure,
Without dissolving quite, in love's hot calenture .

When, from her breast, chaste Arria dragg'd the sword,
And, faintly, reach'd it her expecting lord;
My wound, said she, but wastes unvalu'd breath,
'Tis thine, dear Paetus , gives the sting to death.

If, who would speak things well , must make them clear ,
And souls are touch'd, most strongly, thro' the ear ,
If none convince , but they, who, first, perswade ,
These preaching quacks, of heav'n, mistake their trade:
Who cloak their brightness, with a cloud of form ,
And freeze the fancy, which they ought to warm .

ON A SERMON PREACHED BY THE REV. MR. PIERCY, CHAPLAIN TO THE THIRD BATTALION OF PHILADELPHIA MILITIA .

T O preach up, friend Percy, at this critical season,
Resistance to Britain, is not very civil.
Yet what can we look for but Faction and Treason
From a flaming Enthusiast, fann'd by the Devil?