The minuet was the favourite dance, Girls loved the needle-boys the lance; At dinner, by the boil'd and roast, Or secretly was wont to lurk, In tournament, or needle-work. Of hot Sir-loins, and hot Sir knights; And noble chiefs had noble cheer, And knights grew strong upon strong beer; Honour and oxen both were nourish'd, And chivalry-and pudding flourish'd. I'd rather see that magic face, Intent on puddings, and on puffs, I'd rather view thee thus, than see "A Fashionable" rise in thee. If Life is dark, 'tis not for you, (If partial Friendship's voice is true) To cure its griefs, and drown its cares, If these, and such pursuits are thine, Julia! thou art no friend of mine! I love plain dress-I eat plain joints, And hate a female whipper-in. LINES TO FLORENCE. LONG years have pass'd with silent pace, Yet when that meeting I retrace, And unremember'd-save by thee! We met and hope beguiled our fears, The myrtle that I gaze upon, Sad token by thy love devised, Is all the record left of one So long bewail'd-so dearly prized. You gave it in an hour of grief, When gifts of love are doubly dear; You gave it and one tender leaf Glisten'd the while with Beauty's tear. A tear-oh! lovelier far to me, Shed for me in my saddest hour, O'er desert sand and thorny brake, In scenes of bliss and hours of pride, Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm, I thought upon thy fading form; Forgot the lightning's vivid dart, Forgot the rage of sky and sea, Forgot the doom that bade us part And only lived to love and thee. Florence! thy myrtle blooms! but thou, Forgetful of our mutual vow, And of a heart-still all thine own, Art laid in that unconscious sleep, Which he that wails thee soon must know, Where none may smile, and none may weep, None dream of bliss,-or wake to woe. If e'er, as Fancy oft will feign, To that dear spot which gave thee birth Thy fleeting shade returns again, To look on him thou lov'dst on earth, It may a moment's joy impart, To know that this, thy favourite tree, Is to my desolated heart Almost as dear as thou could'st be. My Florence!-soon-the thought is sweet! I will not have the cypress gloom Over the stillness of my tomb : |