Slip on that ere you rise; let your caution be such; Keep all cold from your breast; there's already too much; Your pinners set right; your twitcher tied on, Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done, Retire to some author improving and gay, And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day. At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year, The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear: After dinner two glasses at least, I approve; Name the first to the King and the last to your love : Thus cheerful, with wisdom, with innocence, gay, And calm with your joys, gently glide through the day. The dews of the evening most carefully shun; Those tears of the sky for the loss of the sun. Then in chat, or at play, with a dance, or a song, Let the night, like the day, pass with pleasure along. All cares, but of love, banish far from your mind; And those you may end, when you please to be kind. A LETTER OF ADVICE FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VavaSour, In London. OU tell me you're promised a lover, The hue of his coat and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, I gave you a chain,-is it broken ? O think of our favourite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook; How fondly our loving lips faltered "What further can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same;-is yours altered? My own Araminta, say "No!" Remember the thrilling romances Would picture for both of us then. You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage When I heard I was going abroad, love, My own Araminta, say "No!"" We parted! but sympathy's fetters I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still; If he's not what Orlando should be, love, If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he puts up his feet on the hob, or Skinner," If he studies the news in the papers If he ever sets foot in the City If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, He must walk-like a god of old story Like music his soft speech must flow!— Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, If he's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say "No!" WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. "FAIR AMORET IS GONE ASTRAY." AIR Amoret is gone astray, Pursue, and seek her, every lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air, Both studied, tho' both seem neglected; Careless she is, with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected. With skill her eyes dart every glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them. |