Prudentia as vainly would put in her claim,
Ever gazing on heaven, tho' man is her aim,
'Tis love, not devotion, that turns up her eyes;
Those stars of the world are too good for the skies.

But Chloe so lively, so easy, so fair,

Her wit so genteel, without art, without care; When she comes in my way, the emotion, the pain, The leapings, the achings, return all again.

O wonderful creature! a woman of reason! Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season! When so easy to guess who this angel should be, Would one think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she!

CHARLES, EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

WRITTEN

AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS,

ON MISS TEMPLE, AFTERWARDS LADY OF

SIR THOMAS LYTTLETON.

EAVE, leave the drawing-room, Where flowers of beauty us'd to bloom;

The nymph that's fated to o'ercome, Now triumphs at the Wells.

Her shape, and air, and eyes,

the wise,

Her face, the gay, the grave,
The beau, in spite of box and dice,

Acknowledge, all excels.

Cease, cease to ask her name,
The crowned Muse's noblest theme,
Whose glory by immortal Fame
Shall only sounded be.

But if you long to know,

Then look round yonder dazzling row:
Who most does like an angel show,
You may be sure 'tis she.

See near those sacred springs,
Which cure to fell diseases brings
(As ancient fame of Ida sings),
Three goddesses appear!

Wealth, glory, two possest;

The third with charming beauty blest;
So fair, that heaven and earth confest
She conquer'd everywhere.

bow;

Like her, this charmer now
Makes every love-sick gazer
Nay, even old age her power allow,

And banish'd flames recall.

Wealth can no trophy rear,
Nor Glory now the garland wear :
To Beauty every Paris here
Devotes the golden ball.

WILLIAM Congreve.

ON THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND.

CHAT do scholars and bards and astronomers wise

Mean by stuffing our heads with nonsense and lies,

By telling us Venus must always appear

In a car, or a shell, or a twinkling star,
Drawn by sparrows, or swans, or dolphins, or doves,
Attended in form by the Graces and Loves?
That ambrosia and nectar is all she will taste,
And her passports to hearts on a belt round her
waist!

Without all this bustle I saw the bright dame;
To supper last night at Pulteney's she came,
In a good warm sedan, no fine open car,
Two chairmen her doves, and a flambeau her star.
No nectar she drank, no ambrosia she eat,
Her cup was plain claret, a chicken her meat,
Nor wanted a cestus her bosom to grace,

For Richmond that night had lent her her face.
PHILIP, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

2

TO MRS. CREWE.

HERE the loveliest expression to features is join'd,

By Nature's most delicate pencil design'd;

Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art, Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the

heart;

Where in manners, enchanting, no blemish we

trace,

But the soul keeps the promise we had from the

face:

Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove
Defences unequal to shield us from love :
Then tell me, mysterious Enchanter, O tell!
By what wonderful art, by what magical spell,

My heart is so fenced that for once I am wise,
And
gaze without rapture on Amoret's eyes;
That my wishes, which never were bounded before,
Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no
more?

Is it reason? No, that my whole life will belie,
For who so at variance as reason and I?
Ambition, that fills up each chink in
my heart,
Nor allows any softer sensation a part?
Oh no! for in this all the world must agree,
One folly was never sufficient for me.

Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd,
Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd?
For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain
Both slacken the springs of those nerves which
they strain.

That I've felt each reverse that from Fortune can flow,

That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know,
Has still been the whimsical fate of my life,
Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife :
But, tho' versed in extremes, both of pleasure and
pain,

I am still but too ready to feel them again.
If then, for this once in my life, I am free,
And escape from the snares that catch wiser than

me:

'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms; For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness that warms;

As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze, But feel not their warmth, though their splendour we praise,

So beauty our just admiration may claim,
But love, and love only, the heart can inflame!
RIGHT HON. CHARLES JAMES FOX.

D

BECAUSE.

WEET Nea! for your lovely sake
I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,

And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light
Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,
Some witchery o'er my dreaming.

Because we've pass'd some joyous days,
And danced some merry dances;
Because we love old Beaumont's plays,
And old Froissart's romances!
Because whene'er I hear your words
Some pleasant feeling lingers;
Because I think your heart has chords,
That vibrate to your fingers!

Because you've got those long, soft curls,
I've sworn should deck my goddess;
Because you're not like other girls,
All bustle, blush, and bodice!
Because your eyes are deep and blue,

Your fingers long and rosy;

Because a little child and you

Would make one's home so cozy!

Because your little tiny nose

Turns up so pert and funny;

Because I know you choose your beaux

More for their mirth than money;