Svch Lida is, that who her sees,
Through enuie, or through loue, straight dies.

This deare, though not respected earth doth hold
One, for his worth, whose tombe should bee of gold.

Tir'd wi' tramping moors an' mosses,
Speeling stairs, an' lifting snecks,
Daunering down through lanes an' closses,
Buskin' braw the bonny sex,

Hame, at e'ening, late I scuded,
Whare auld Reekie's turrets tow'r,
Mirk the Lift was, drousy cluded,
An' the starns begoud to glow'r;

In my nieve, my honest Lucky,
Soon's I reek't her ingle cheek,
Ram't yer lines — as daft's a bucky
Was I when I heard you speak.

Ben the room I ran wi' hurry,
Clos'd the door wi' unco glee,
Read, an leugh, maist like to worry,

Ah! of that cruell bee
Thy lips haue suckt too much,
For when they mine did touch,
I found that both they hurt, and sweetned mee:
This by the sting they haue,
And that they of the honey doe receaue;
Deare kisse, else by what arte
Couldst thou at once both please and wound my heart?

As an audacious knight,
Come with some foe to fight,
His sword doth brandish, makes his armour ring,
So this prowde bee, at home perhaps a king,
Did buzzing flie about,
And, tyrant, after thy faire lip did sting:
O champion strange as stout!
Who hast by nature found
Sharpe armes, and trumpet shrill, to sound, and wound.

Some ladies wed, some loue, and some adore them,
I like their wanton sport, then care not for them.

To Miss Fortesque,

I.

Ye sylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham! say
What is the charm that each successive year
Which sees me with my Lucy here
Can thus to my transported heart
A sense of joy unfelt before impart?

II.

Is it glad Summer's balmy breath that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss was here before;
Oft' have I met her on the verdant side
Of Norwood Hill, and in the yellow meads

Ye gladsome bells, how misapplied your peal!
A day, like this, requires a solemn chime:
Infatuate mortals! why, with sportive heel,
Dance ye exulting o'er the grave of Time?

Is he your foe, that thus ye ring his knell?
That festive notes announce his awful flight?
Tire ye of day, that sounds of triumph tell,
How swift the wing that wafts your last, long night?

While circling years o'er thoughtless myriads roll,
Long folly but to lend, and length of shame,
Ye metal tongues, swing slow with mournful toll,

Hail, sacred Solitude, ordain'd by Heav'n,
The nurse of Wisdom, and the friend of Woe!
Oh, give a bosom, which thou oft hast giv'n,
Thy high, mysterious pleasures still to know.

Still let thy silent train my call obey;
Wild Fancy, whom nor earth nor air confines;
With heavenly Truth, whom robes of light array;
And Virtue, throbbing with sublime designs!

To thee I fly from folly and from noise:
Far sweeter is thy shade than tinsel show!
Ah! ne'er may guilt disturb thy peaceful joys,
Cloud thy sweet smile, and change thee to a foe!

The counsels of a friend Belinda! hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatt'ries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men;
Nor think I praise you ill when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit is mine to dare to be sincere,
But greater your's sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women like princes find few real friends;
All who approach them their own ends pursue:
Lovers and ministers are seldom true:
Hence oft' from reason heedless Beauty strays,