Short Poems

She on this clayen pillow layed her head,
As brides do use the first to go to bed.
He missed her soon and yet ten monthShe trys
To live apart and lykes it not and dyes.

Venus , I heare thou roam' st about
To finde thy wandring Cupid out,
Who (having play'd the wag last day)
For feare of britching flue away;
And promisest to give a kisse
To him can telle thee where he is;
Come then, and thrive in thy request;
Kisse me, and take him in my brest.

Go softly past the graveyard where
Hipponax is asleep: take care!
Don't wake that spiteful wasp, who stung
Even his parents with his tongue.
In Hell itself, where now he lies,
His red-hot words can cauterize.

F ORM'D half beneath, and half above the earth,
We sisters owe to art our second birth:
The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters,
Made on the land, to travel on the waters.
Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,
Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:
They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT .

I N a dark corner of the house
Poor Helen sits, and sobs and cries;
She will not see her loving spouse,
Nor her more dear picquet-allies:
Unless she find her eye-brows,
She'll e'en weep out her eyes.

SINCE MARCHIONESS OF CARMARTHEN, ON A COLUMN OF HER DRAWING .

When future ages shall with wonder view
These glorious lines, which Harley's daughter drew,
They shall confess, that Britain could not raise
A fairer column to the father's praise.

When fam'd Verelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view:
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand;
And finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine, that ne'er shall fade.

There needes no Iuie, where the wine is good:
Nor queint discourse, where iudgemet leads the pen:
Nor forced praise, where Science spreads the saile:
Then gentle Bales , despise the scoffing brood;
Thy Booke hath past the eyes of learned men,
And shall supplie this Soyle with sweete auaile.
Truth needes no foile, but triumphs in desart:
A wanton flourish neuer dwells with Art.

Let us, my Friend , all peevish Self withstand,
And in the Meekness of the Spotless Lamb,
Lead one another gently by the Hand,
And travel forward to the holy Land,
Where the Redeemed on Mount Sion stand,
With Harps of Living Praises in their Hand.

ON AN ACTIVE TRADESMAN .

This headless column on a stone —
What may this mournful shaft betoken?
Pale orphans answer, with their moan,
" The key-stone of an arch is gone!
A mother's heart is broken. "