Upon a certain Bath P RINTER , who grossly abuses the Public by writing in his own weekly Paper a vulgar , scandilizing Review, under the Signature of F RANK F REEMAN , and others .

The IMPOSITOR Unmask'd.

Not print my Lines, good Master K*** E ,
You've Reasons, clear as Day-light seen;
What P***e and you (a noble Pair)
Resolve t' engross the public Ear:
Nothing, but pleasing to themselves,
These wou'd-be Witlings, dirty Elves,
Wou'd force the Public to comply
With Terms as servile; — but shall I

She is washing up dishes at home now
And cooking the dinner — all but.
She has no inclination to roam now
That her " world " and " the pictures " are shut.
No more may she stare at that other
False world, for her dummies are still;
Unmarried, she's helping her mother,
Or, married, she's mending for Bill.

No longer she wastes half her days now
In smothering darkness and heat,
Contemplating the Woman that Pays, now,

   Up from the Caribbean
   The wind comes like a pæan,
As on my fragrant orange-bough I swing,
   Dreaming, and wondering,
And piping Sapphic fragments o'er and o'er.

   Along the shore
The surf foams madly and the breakers roar.
   Strange odors from afar,
   Spice, amber, nard, and tar,
And Lesbian roses grown in Mitylene,
And violet breath, and waft of myrtle green,
Steep me in visions passionate and wild,
   Of love, all undefiled,
   Whereby was Sappho's bright
   Rose garden of delight,

Death and birth dog us:
I died only a few days ago:
Now, new-born, I send up a cry of delight at creation:
The world and I are so unstudied fresh …

  Provence, where love and rhyme
  Sweetened one throb of time;
  Provence, whose voice is dead,
  Whose rose-tree vanishëd;
  Provence, old broken broc ,
  Whose melodious Langue d'oc ,
  Like sweet wine spilled and gone,
  Has left a fragrance ever lingering on;
Whose nightingale finds no new song to sing,—
 I, a wild bird upon the outer rim
Of a young choir, this sunrise carol fling
 Across thine ashes and thy ruins dim!

Provence,
  This new song in my mouth
  Is of the younger South,

Mid foliage green and gold,
And bloom-sprays manifold,
I feel
The fragrance of eternal freshness steal
Forth from the rising day,
And far away,
Like the murmuring of a stream,
Or a lute-chord in a dream,
On the horizon stirs
The rich and rapturous anthem of the Future's choristers.
How it flows
And grows
On its notes
What triumph floats!
Before it earth is gladdened and the sea is like a rose.
The dawn
Is coming on—
Sweeter,
Fleeter,
In rhythms and rhymes and ripples flow the rays.
The high,

Much adicted to Gaming .

Still you persist, unthinking Youth,
In spite of daily, painful Truth ;
Why suffer all my friendly Care
To vanish into fleeting Air?
Let Reason but assume her Reign,
You'll quickly be yourself again;
And loath (with me) such vile Employ,
Destructive, Foe to ev'ry Joy;
'Tis Madness all — avaunt the Plea
Of rooted Custom , that with M E
Weighs nothing; 'tis an idle dream,
And Reason knows not what you mean:
Judge by Effects, they best declare,
How ill the Cause; desist, forbear —

Address'd to Miss Charlotte B***s, upon her presenting the Author with a Sprig of Myrtle .

May my future Days be Rue,
If this Myrtle Sprig from you,
Gives me not exalted Joy:
What's the finest D EARD -bought Toy,
When compar'd to Nature's Store?
But to make the Treasure more,
From a Fair, divinely sweet!
Where the dimpl'd Graces meet;
Giv'n with that Goddess Air,
Thanks, my Charlotte — lovely Fair!

Now " Scotty " was a black Scot, cursed England with his clan
Because his gret-gran'-fayther was hanged a " Charlie's man " ,
But Scotty left in Flanders, wi' blackest curse and frown,
A hairy leg for England and the King his Crown.
O'er hills by richt his ain
He stumps wi' micht and main
And monny a curse for England and the King his Crown.

Now Paddy was a red Celt and known in any land
(His heart he always carries in the heel of his right hand).
He went to gaol for Ireland before the moon went down,

Upon the Death of Mr . W ILLIAM W EBB , ( a very ingenious young Gentleman) at the Hot-Well, Bristol .

I.

Death! is the common Lot of all,
The Prince and Peasant both must fall;
Not all the Splendor of the Great,
Can shield 'em from this gen'ral Fate.

II.

But when such op'ning Virtues fly,
Too early seek their Kindred Sky,
Who but laments? deplores the Time?
As I, in sympathetic Rhime;

III.

When such a Youth, esteem'd, belov'd,
To Friends most dear, by all approv'd,