In dismal Weeds you still appear,
  Melissa , tho' the Time is out,
And vow, your Mourning ne'er shall end:
  Excess of Grief , I make no Doubt,
For our departed, loving Friend ;
Yet, since you have not shed a Tear ,
 There are some People who pretend,
It cant be Sorrow for your Dear .
 'Tis true, this Dress becomes you more,
 Than any Thing you ever wore.

Why weary of a single Life?
I wou'd advise you, Charles , to stay:
Friend Limber marry'd th' other Day;
You like his Table , and his Wife .

Whence this strange Bustle , Friends, I trow,
Of Tory, Whig ; of High , and Low?
Zeal for the Public Good , no Doubt.
No; here's the Cause of all this Din ;
They out of Place , wou'd fain come in ,
They that are in, wou'd not go out .

What has this Change in Myrtle wrought;
He's grown reserv'd, and full of Thought;
Looks odd , and hardly seems to know
The Friends, he lov'd a while ago.
I'll tell you: Myrtle has, of late,
Inherited a good Estate .

Oh! fear me not, sweet little Bird,
Nor quit the bough for me,
But let your evening song be heard
Of artless minstrelsy.

Think not I wish to do you harm
Or drive you from the spray,
In hopes your song my thoughts may charm
I'm listening to your lay.

Oh! sing the saddest, wildest strain
You've e'er been taught by grief,
And chaunt it o'er and o'er again
'Twill give my soul relief.

If you have watched a Parent dear
Whose life was on the wane,
The mournful song pray let me hear,
You sang to soothe his pain.

Lovely flow'ret, sweetly blooming
'Neath our drear ungentle sky —
Shrinking, coy, and unassuming
From the gaze of mortal eye.

On thy bed of moss reposing,
Fearless of the drifting snow,
Modestly thy charms disclosing,
Storms but make them brighter glow,

Spring's mild, fragrant, fair attendant,
Blooming near the greenwood tree,
While the dew-drop, sparkling, pendant,
Makes thee smile bewitchingly.

Oh! I love to look upon thee,
Peeping from thy close retreat,
While the sun is shining on thee,

In Anno Twenty , it is clear,
You lost Twelve Hundred Pounds a Year:
You still have left Twelve Hundred more.
Yet Irus , who was born to none,
And found the Means to get but One ,
Is rich , and blest , you sad , and poor .

Oh! precious are the brilliant things
That in earth's peaceful bosom lie,
And bright the beams the Diamond flings,
In radiant lustre on the eye.

Rich are the Ruby's dazzling gleams,
And pure the Pearl's unfading ray,
And mellow are the golden beams
That round the costly Topaz play.

There's light in many a sparkling gem,
And wealth in many a precious stone,
But let them deck the diadem,
And blaze around the monarch's throne.

Cornelia never casts a thought
On baubles valueless as these,

Titus reads neither Prose, nor Rhime,
He writes himself ; he has no Time.

God knows, Prudilla , while you pray,
Which Saint you chuse, what Words you say;
But what you wish , we shrewdly guess,
In your Devotion , and Distress ,
And this beyond all Doubt we know,
None of your Vows to Heaven go;
For still your rich, old Aunt 's alive ,
And you're a Maid at Thirty Five ,
In Love, despis'd; in Debt, and poor:
An Atheist scarce cou'd suffer more.