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READ here the pangs of unsuccessful Love;
And oh let pity your soft bosoms move.
Whilst Hammond, hapless youth! for Delia burns,
The plaintive Muse in sweetest accents mourns:
What Belle so savage, but their force must own?
What heart that melts not, but an heart of stone?

Read then, and listen to the Muse's voice: Let this example sanctify your choice. When the fond youth his passion strives to prove, By Hammond's symptoms try the force of love: Mark well the speaking eye, th' impassion'd tear, The pulse quick-throbbing, and the sigh sincere. Then, then be banish'd every meaner guest, Nor avarice, nor ambition, fire your breast.

Ye fairer Delias! choose the better part,
Nor slight the youth who gives you all his heart;
But crown with mutual love the generous flame,
And happier Hammonds shall record your name.

ΤΟ

A YOUNG LADY,

ON HER

PRESENTING THE AUTHOR

WITH A LOCK OF HER HAIR.

By the Same.

THE Poets (fabling tribe!) aver,
That once the ruthless God of War,
(Who, bred amid the din of arms,
Defy'd the power of Beauty's charms,
And long had, proudly, scorn'd to wear
The pleasing fetters of the Fair)
Struck with the graceful air and mien,
And roseate bloom of Cyprus' Queen;
His savage fierceness all forbore,
Subdued by Venus' magic lore;
And soon became, her power to prove,
A convert to the force of Love.

The wily Goddess then, 'tis said, All with an heavenly-temper'd braid

Of net-work, circled him around,
And to her snowy bosom bound;
Secur'd the conquest of her eyes,
And, by the rulers of the skies,

From the fierce God of War so tam'd,
Thenceforth was BEAUTY'S GODDESS nam'd.

Thus say the Poets-who in fiction,
In figure, and in contradiction
To all the laws of modest Nature,
Trick out a strange romantic creature,
Which after all they quaintly feign,
No where exists, but in the brain.

Might I the genuine truth reveal,
And would you listen to the tale ;
Would you, indulgently, supply
Whate'er I pass in silence by-

Whose was the dull, insensate breast,
Which Beauty's power, at length confess'd—
Who soon became, that power to prove,

A convert to the force of love:

Would you conceive who 'tis I mean-
The rest 'twere easy to explain:

"The heavenly net-work, Venus' snare,
Was this-A RINGLET OF HER HAIR:
And She, to give her ALL her due,
Some faint resemblance was of-you."

TO A

LADY

MAKING A PIN-BASKET.

BY

SIR JAMES MARRIOT.

WHILE objects of a parent's care With joy your fond attention share, Madam, accept th' auspicious strain; Nor rise your beauteous work in vain : Oft be your second race survey'd, And oft a new pin-basket made.

When marriage was in all its glory (So poets, madam, tell the story,) Ere Plutus damp'd love's purer flame, Or Smithfield bargains had a name, In heav'n a blooming youth and bride At Hymen's altars were ally'd; When Cupid had his Psyche won, And, all her destin'd labors done, The cruel Fates their rage relented, And mamma Venus had consented.

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