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She likes herself, yet 'others hates
For that which in herself she prizes ;
“PHYLLIDA, THAT LOVED TO DREAM.”
HYLLIDA, that loved to dream
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas ! should fill her head,
Water and a willow ?
Which sweet woodbine covers.
But much fewer lovers.
o, how changed the prospect grows !
Coxcombs without number!
And whole nights at ombre.
E’en of our own mothers;
What we lent to others.
Though the favourite Toast I reign,
And lose my reputation ?
Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
ON A WOMAN OF FASHION.
HEN, behind, all my hair is done up in
a plat, And so, like a cornet's, tuck'd under
Then I mount on my palfrey as gay as a lark,
“ But sometimes, when bold, I order my chaise,
And to give them this title I'm sure isn't wrong, Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so
“In Kensington Gardens to stroll up and down, You know was the fashion before you left town: The thing's well enough, when allowance is made For the size of the trees and the depth of the
shade; But the spread of their leaves such a shelter
affords To those noisy impertinent creatures call’d birds, Whose ridiculous chirruping ruins the scene, Brings the country before me, and gives me the
Yet, though 'tis too rural —to come near the
mark, We all herd in one walk, and that nearest the park, There with ease we may see, as we pass by the
wicket, The chimneys of Knightsbridge, and—footmen at
cricket. I must though, in justice, declare that the grass, Which, worn by our feet, is diminish'd apace, In a little time more will be brown and as flat As the sand at Vauxhall, or as Ranelagh mat. Improving thus fast, perhaps, by degrees, We may see rolls and butter spread under the
trees, With a small, pretty band in each seat of the
walk To play little tunes and enliven our talk."
AY, Lucy, what enamour'd spark
In new barouche or tandem ;
To run their course at random ?
Fond youth, those braids of ebon hair,
Impart a lustre fairer;
And changeful as the wearer.
Portends unruffed quiet ;
Within her soul can riot.
Alas! how often shalt thou mourn
Be worth a moment's trouble),
Was painted on a bubble.
In her accommodating creed
A commoner's embraces ;
His lordship's love contents the fair,
A nobler prize-his Grace's !
And trust to what she utters !
cheeks or sparkling eyes,
Of Benedictine neighbours.
And she repays my labours.
As these unpolish'd verses),
DIXIT, ET IN MENSAMThe scene is a picnic, and Mr. Joseph de Clapham ventures to think that his fiancée, the lovely Belgravinia, is a little too fast.
OW don't look so glum and so sanctified,
please, For folks comme il faut, Sir, are always
at ease; How dare you suggest that my talk is too free? Il n'est jamais de mal en bon compagnie.