A pikeaxe and a spade, And eke a shrouding sheet, A house of clay for to be made For such a guest most meet. Methinks I hear the clerk, That knolls the careful knell, And bids me leave my weary work, Ere nature me compel. My keepers knit the knot, That youth doth laugh to scorn, Of me that shall be clean forgot, As I had ne'er been born. Thus must I youth give up, Lo here the bared skull; By whose bald sign I know, That stooping age away shall pull What youthful age did sow. For beauty with her band, These crooked cares had wrought, And shipp'd me into the land From whence I first was brought. And ye that 'bide behind, Vocal Magazine. SONG. WHY will Florella, when I gaze, To shun her scorn, and ease my care, Still gentle usage find. But oh! how faint is ev'ry joy, So restless exiles, doom'd to roam, Yet languish for their native home, Tho' death attends them there. Mr. Budgell. VERSES TO A LADY, ENCLOSING A TICKET FOR COX'S MUSEUM. You have read, my dear madam, of wonderful sights, Of fine glittering chariots, drawn by gilt dragons, But of William Street's charming fine sight take a view, Enclos'd is your passport, take Bell in your hand, And feast on the wonders of this fairy land. Freeman's Hibernia. VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALMANACK, Sent as a New-year's Gift to a Young Lady. LONG time revolving in my mind, At length with compliments o' the season, I vow it puts one in the spleen." Which shews that you, however fair, chiefest care. Besides, tho' now so useful deem'd, Tho' sought by all, by all esteem'd, (For here we see as in a glass, How quick the fleeting moments pass, And catch with ecstasy of soul, The various seasons as they roll; See Spring, led on by blooming May, See Autumn's harvest load the plain, The Lord, the Farmer, and the Squire, So if a maid,-but oh! that you May never prove the maxim true, From pride and cruelty, disdains To hear the vows of constant swains, Smiles at their sighs, and scorns their pains, Too soon, O dire revenge, they find Time stealing on her from behind; She then her cruelty repents, She then her wasted youth laments; While they, exulting, mock her cares, And all her sighs are vain as theirs. Freeman's Journal. |