Encourag'd thus to mend my faults,
I turn'd his counsel in my thoughts,
Which way I should apply it;
Learning and wit seem'd past my reach,
For who can learn when none will teach?
And wit-I could not buy it.

Then come, my friends, and try your skill, You can inform me if you will,

(My books are at a distance.)

With you I'll live and learn, and then
Instead of books, I shall read men,
So lend me your assistance.

Dear Knight of Plympton,* teach me how To suffer with unruffled brow,

And smile serene like thine; The jest uncouth, or truth severe, To such I'll turn my deafest ear, And calmly drink my wine.

Thou sayest, not only skill is gain'd,
But genius too, may be obtain'd

By studious imitation;

Thy temper mild, thy genius fine,
I'll copy till I make thee mine,
By constant application.

* Sir Joshua Reynolds.

Thy art of pleasing teach me Garrick,
Thou who reverest odes Pindarick,
A second time read o'er,*

Oh! cou'd we read thee backwards too,
Last thirty years thou should'st review,
And charm us thirty more.

If I have thoughts and can't express 'em,
Gibbons shall teach me how to dress 'em,
In terms select and terse;

Jones teach me modesty and Greek,
Smith how to think, Burke how to speak,
And Beauclerc to converse.

Let Johnson teach me how to place,
In fairest light, each borrow'd grace,
From him I'll learn to write;
Copy his clear familiar style,
And, from the roughness of his file,
Grow like himself-polite.

* Garrick being asked to read Cumberland's Odes, laughed immoderately, and affirmed that such stuff might as well be read backwards as forwards, and the witty Roscius accordingly read them in that manner, and produced the same good sense and poetry as the senti mental author had ever genius to write.

Freeman's Journal.

'TIS

TO A LADY.

Is not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
That swim with pleasure and delight;
Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise
O'er each of them to shade their light;
'Tis not that hair which plays with ev'ry wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;
Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind,
Retiring with insidious grace.

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white
As new-shorn sheep, equal and fair;
Nor even that gentle smile, the heart's delight,
With which no sinile could e'er compare;
'Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts that swell to meet my eye;
That easy sloping waist, that form divine
For which I burn, for which I die.

'Tis not the living colours over each, By Nature's finest pencil wrought,

To shame the fresh-blown rose, and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painter's thought:

But, 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love,

So kindly answering my desire;

That grace with which you look, and speak, and move, That thus have set my soul on fire.

Vocal Magazine.

VERSES

TO A LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

OH, be thou blest with all that Heav'n can send,
Long life, long health, long pleasure, and a friend!
Not with those toys that women would admire,
Riches that vex, and vanities that tire.

Let joy and ease, let affluence and content,
And the good conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, awaken ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face!
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a pang, a trouble, or a fear!

And oh! since death must that dear frame destroy,
Die by some sudden ecstasy of joy!—

In some soft dream, may thy mild soul remove,
And be thy latest gasp-a sigh of love!

Freeman's Journal.

BEAUTY AND MUSIC.

MUSIC has pow'r to melt the soul;

By Beauty nature's sway'd;

Each can the universe control,

Without the other's aid.

But here together both appear,
And force united try;

Music enchants the list'ning ear,
And Beauty charms the eye.

What cruelty these pow'rs to join!
These transports who can bear?
Oh! let the sound be less divine,
Or look the nymph less fair.

Vocal Magazine.

SONG.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robe loosely flowing, hair as free :
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Ben Johnson.