She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes; WILLIAM CONGREVE. "PHYLLIDA, THAT LOVED TO DREAM." HYLLIDA, that loved to dream What, alas! should fill her head, But a fountain, or a mead, Water and a willow? Love in cities never dwells, Which sweet woodbine covers. O, how changed the prospect grows! Moon and stars that shone so bright; Pleasant as it is to hear E'en of our own mothers; Though the favourite Toast I reign, Must I live 'twixt spite and fear, Thus the fair to sighs gave way, JOHN GAY. 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 long. "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 spleen. 66 '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, With a small, pretty band in each seat of the walk To play little tunes and enliven our talk." THOMAS TICKELL. THE JILT. AY, Lucy, what enamour'd spark In new barouche or tandem; And, as infatuation leads, Permits his reason and his steeds To run their course at random? Fond youth, those braids of ebon hair, Impart a lustre fairer; Those locks which now invite to love, Unpractised in a woman's guile, Thou think'st, perchance, her halcyon smile That, ever-charming, fond and mild, Alas! how often shalt thou mourn In her accommodating creed His lordship's love contents the fair, A nobler prize-his Grace's! Unhappy are the youths who gaze, At Chamber'd in Albany, I view muse, And she repays my labours. And should some brat her love bespeak JAMES SMITH. DIXIT, ET IN MENSAM—. The 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. |