EPITAPH ON FOP,

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON,

[August, 1792.]

THOUGH Once a puppy, and though Fop by namie, Here moulders One whose bones some honour claim No sycophant, although of spaniel race,

And though no hound, a martyr to the chase—

Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,

Your haunts no longer echo to his voice

This record of his fate exulting view,

He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.

"Yes" the indignant shade of Fop replies"And worn with vain pursuit, Man also dies."

SONNET

ΤΟ

GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.

ON

Ilis picture of me in Crayons, drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.

[October, 1792.]

ROMNEY, expert infallibly to trace

On chart or canvass, not the form alone And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face

With strokes that time ought never to erase

Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own

The subject worthless, I have never known

The artist shining with superiour grace.

But this I mark-that symptoms none of wo
In thy incomparable work appear.
Well-I am satisfied it should be so,

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear :

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to Thee?

ON

RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.

[January, 1793.]

IN language warm as could be breath'd or penn'd,

Thy picture speaks th' Original, my Friend,
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind-
They only speak thee Friend of all mankind;
Expression here more soothing stil I see,
That Friend of all a partial Friend to me

EPITAPH

ON

MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHIELEY.

[April 1793.]

TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who knew him follow to the skies.

Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep,
And justly—few shall ever nim transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.

ON

A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.

[Spring of 1793.]

THRIVE, gentle plant; and weave a bow'r
For Mary and for me,

And deck with many a splendid flow'r
Thy foliage large and free.

Thou cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)

Some future day th' illustrious head

Of Him who made thee mine.

Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the Bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing pow'r ;

For why should not the Virgin's Friend
Be crown'd with Virgin's bow'r ?

TO MY COUSIN,

ANNE BODHAM,

ON

Receiving from her a Network Purse, made by herself.

[May 4, 1793.]

My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more

Than plaything for a nurse,

I danc'd and fondled on my knee,

A kitten both in size and glee,

I thank thee for my purse.

Gold pays the worth of all things here:
But not of love ;-that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.

INSCRIPTION

For an Hermitage in the Author's Garden

[May, 1793.]

Tuis cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built, as it has been, in our waning years;
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to-the last retreat.

TO MRS. UNWIN.

[May, 1793.]

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heav'n as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce giv'n to mortals, new
And undebas'd by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or wo I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heav'nly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mme.