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WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

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The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is-to die.

Se trata


W HERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champaign,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay ;
The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread :
The Royal Game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William shew'd hislamp-black face;
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : *
With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor'd, ,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board ;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

Intended to have been sung by Miss Hardcastle in

the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer.
H me, when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me;
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me. .
But I will rally and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover ;
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.


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A MIDST the clamor of exulting joys, 4. Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled,

And saw thee fall, with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead :

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

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On Dr. Parnell.
THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
* May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to Truth thro' Pleasun's flowery way!

Celestial themes confest his tuneful aid ;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.



On Edward Purdon.*
H ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
11 Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world

I don't think he'll wish to come back.


On the Glory of her Sex.

Mrs. Mary Blaize.
CLOOD people all with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor, Who left a pledge behind.

# This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublla; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot.sol dier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers, He translated Yoltaire's Henriade.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wond'rous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways,

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size, - She never slumber'd in her pew,

But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more ;
The king himself has follow'd her.
When she has walk'd before,

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found when she was dead,
Her last disorder mortal,

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not dy'd to-day.


WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,

" Lost to every gay delight, Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection?

Or dim thy beauty with a tear ?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.



THE wretch, condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies ;
And every pang, that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,

Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

Memory! thou fond deceiver,

Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain ;

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

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