You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the fcene around,

Shou'd droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The nobleft minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love,
Thefe, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by fhrinking fhew'd he felt it.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM CAW.

TO

THORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I fhould but ill repay,
The kindness of a friend,
Whofe worth deferves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.

II.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Nor rafhly or in fport,

May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its fort,

And may as rich in comfort prove,

As that of true fraternal love.

III.

The bud inferted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rofe,

Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,
The ftock whereon it grows,

With flow'r as fweet or fruit as fair,
As if produc'd by nature there..

IV. Nor

IV.

Nor rich, I render what I may,

I feize thy name in haste, And place it in this firft affay, Left this fhould prove the laft.

'Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

V.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart,
Affection lights a brighter flame
Then ever blaz'd by art.
No mufes on thefe lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.