English

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.

Timon , chagrin'd, and sick of Life,
To mend the Matter, takes a Wife .
Things still go worse: to ease his Pain,
Kind Heaven took his Spouse again.
Unhappy yet, he keeps a Miss ;
But was no better pleas'd with this.
Court next, and Camp in vain he tries;
With like Success o'er Europe flies;
Marries once more. At length, resign'd,
Observes the Evil's in his Mind .

If you ever heard my prayer,
Hear it now, indulgent fair;
Let your swain no longer mourn,
But return, my fair, return.
Lo! tempestuous winter near
Stains the evening of the year;
Gloomy clouds obscure the day,
Nature ceases to be gay;
The sweet tenants of the grove
Warble no soft tales of love:
Rise, my fair, and bring with thee
Joy for all, but love for me.
Where are all those blooming flowers
That adorn'd my rural bowers?
Dappled pinks, and violets blue,
And the tulip's gaudy hue,

'Twas on a lovely summer day
Folly, Philosophy, and Reason,
To Friendship's Garden took their way,
Where fruits and flowers were in season.

All that the nicest taste could please,
All that the eye could fancy fair,
Was hanging on the bending Trees,
Or sprung in rich profusion there.

Philosophy, with cautious eye,
Could neither fancy fruit or flower —
In all the last, he thorns would spy,
And all the first, he fear'd were sour.

And Folly rambled on the while,

Come, ye fair, ambrosial flowers,
Leave your beds, and leave your bowers,
Blooming, beautiful, and rare,
Form a posy for my fair;
Fair, and bright, and blooming be,
Meet for such a nymph as she.
Let the young vermilion rose
A becoming blush disclose;
Such as L AURA'S cheeks display,
When she steals my heart away.
Add carnation's varied hue,
Moisten'd with the morning dew:
To the woodbine's fragrance join
Sprigs of snow-white jessamine.
Add no more; already I
Shall, alas! with envy die,

Tho' your Boy Charles ressembles John ,
Your Nose is short , and his is Long ,
Why can't you see his Merit?
Must Ned , who han't a Grain of Wit ,
But Like , as you the Child had spit ,
Your whole Estate inherit?

Lady, how eagerly I thread the maze
Of rank and beauty, 'till thy noble form
Stands full before me — 'till at last I gaze,
In joy and thankfulness, to find the storm
That shook the fruit profusely, spared the tree;
To realize my dreams of time and thee —
To find the eye still bright, the cheek still warm,
The regal outlines swelling, soft and free,
And lit by luminous thoughts, as I would have them be.

Unconscious thou, how, far beyond the wave,
The lowest murmur of thy softest strain

Flowers strew the earth, as stars the sky,
And on them rests the human eye
With exquisite delight.
Their perfume haunts the air we breathe,
And graceful hands their petals wreathe
Round fairy forms at night.
The glowing forest's solemn shade,
The rugged mountain's brow —
Where Man, of Nature half afraid
Allured and charmed, but yet dismayed —
Flora with graceful skill can braid
As only she knows how.

Around the mansions of the great,
Festooned with artful care:

Nay, do not droop, my Father, I will stay,
Though all should leave thee midst the black'ning trees;
I will not go, though better prospects tempt
To homes where less of hardship and of toil
Perchance await me. I will not forsake
The hut, which Age and Fortune's sad decline
Forced thee within the Wilderness to rear.
Then do not droop, my Father — check the sigh
That o'erwrought feelings, woven from former wrecks
And present desolation, vainly prompt.
We may be happy here — and that which seems