A SONG.

SENT TO CHLOE, WITH A ROSE.

Tune---The Lass of Patie's Mill.

1.

YES, ev'ry flow'r that blows

I pass'd unheeded by,
Till this enchanting Rose
Had fix'd my wand'ring eye.

It scented ev'ry breeze

That wanton'd o'er the stream,

Or trembled thro' the trees,
To meet the morning beam.

II.

To deck that beauteous maid,

Its fragrance can't excel; From some celestial shade

The damask charmer fell:

And as her balmy sweets

On Chloe's breast she pours, The Queen of Beauty greets The gentle Queen of Flow'rs.

A SONG.

I.

HE that Love hath never try'd,
Nor had Cupid for his guide,
Cannot hit the passage right
To the palace of Delight.

II.

What are honours, regal wealth,
Florid youth, and rosy-health?
Without Love his tribute brings,
Impotent, unmeaning things!

III.

Gentle Shepherd! persevere,
Still be tender, still sincere;
Love and Time, united, do
Wonders, if the heart be true.

IS

A THREE-PART CATCH.

'Tis in view---(the rich blessing kind nature be-
To conquer our sorrows or lighten the load) [stow'd,
A full flask!---the rich nectar this bottle contains,
In a flood of fresh rapture, shall roll thro' our veins.
Let it bleed---and carousing this liquor divine,
Sing an hymn to the god that first cultur'd the vine.

THE TOAST.

A CATCH.

GIVE the Toast---my good Fellow! be jovial and And let the brisk moments pass jocund away. [gay, Here's the King---Take your bumpers, my brave British souls!

Who guards your fair Freedom should crown your full bowls.

Let him live---long and happy---see Lewis brought

down,

And taste all the comforts, no cares, of a crown.

A SONNET,

ADDRESSED TO MISS S---.

I.

WHEN Flora decks the mantling bow'rs

In elegant array,

And scatters all her op'ning flow'rs,

A compliment to May!

II.

With glowing joy my bosom beats,
I gaze delighted round,

And wish to see the various sweets

In one rich nosegay bound.

'Tis granted---and their bloom display'd, To bless my wond'ring view;

I see them all---my beauteous Maid!
I see them all in --you.

EPISTLES.

TO A YOUNG WIDOW.

LET bashful virgins, nicely coy,

Exalted rapture lose,

And, timid at untasted joy,

Thro' fearfulness refuse.

Will you---the pleasing conflict try'd,
Tho'sure to conquer---fly?

If you---the sacred zone unty'd,
'Tis peevish to deny.

But, if my Fair! the Widow's name
Hold gracious with you still,

The God of Love has form'd a scheme
Obsequious to your will.

Take, take me to thy twining arms,

(Opprest with warm desire)

Where, conquer'd by such mighty charms, A monarch might expire.