Imatges de pÓgina

Among their Brethren of the Skies;
To which (though late) shall Stella rise.
Ten Thousand Oaths upon Record,
Are not fo facred as her Word:
The World shall in its Atoms end,
E'er Stella can deceive a Friend.
By Honour seated in her Breast,
She still determines what is beft:
What Indignation in her Mind
Against Enllavers of Mankind!
Base Kings and Ministers of State,
Eternal Objects of her Hate.


She thinks, that Nature ne'er design'd
Courage to Man alone confind :
Can Cowardice her Sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to Scorn?
She wonders where the Charm appears
In Florimel's affected Fears:
For Stella never learn'd the Art,
At proper Times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the House at Night,
And swears she saw a Thing in White:


Doll never flies to cut her Lace,
Or throw cold water in her Face,
Because she heard a sudden Drum,
Or found an Earwig in a Plum.

Her Hearers are amaz'd from whence
Proceeds that Fund of Wit and Sense ;
Which though her Modesty would shroud,
Breaks like the Sun behind a Cloud:
While Gracefulness its Arț conceals,
And yet through ev'ry Motion steals.

SAY, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And forming you, mistook your Kind?
No: 'Twas for you alone he stole
The Fire that forms a manly Soul;
Then to compleat it ev'ry way,
He molded it with Female Clay ;
To that you owe the nobler Flame,
To this, the Beauty of your Frame.

How would Ingratitude delight?
And, how would Censure glut her Spight?
If I should Stella's Kindness hide
In Silence, or forget with Pride.


When on my fickly Couch I lay,
Impatient both of Night and Day,
Lamenting in unmanly Strains,
Callid ev'ry Pow'r to ease my Pains :
Then Stella ran to my Relief,
With chearful Face, and inward Grief;
And, though by Heaven's severe Decreę
She suffers hourly more than me,
No cruel Master could require
From Slayes employ'd for daily Hire,
What Stella, by her Friendship warm’d,
With Vigour and Delight perform’d:
My finking Spirits now supplies
With Cordials in her Hands, and Eyes ;
Now, with a soft and silent Tread,
Unheard she moves about my Bed,
I see her taste each nauseous Draught,
And so obligingly am caught;
I bless the Hand from whence they came,
Nor dare distorç my Face for shame,

Best Pattern of true Friends, beware; You pay too dearly for your Care,

If, while your Tenderness secures
My Life, it must endanger yours.
For fuch a Fool was never found,
Who pull'd a Palace to the Ground,
Only to have the Ruins made
Materials for an Housę decay'd.


Cutting down the old THORN



Written in the YEAR 1727


T Market-Hill, as well

appears By Chronicle of antient Date, There stood for many a Hundred Years,

A spacious Thorn before the Gate.

Hither came every Village-Maid,

And on the Boughs her Garland hung, And here, beneath the spreading Shade,

Şecure from Sacyrs fat and sung.

* Şir Archibald that valrous Knight,

Then Lord of all the fruitful Plain, Would come to listen with Delight,

For he was fond of rural Strain.

(Sir Archibald whose fav'rite Name

Shall stand for Ages on Record; By Scottis Bards of highest Fame,

Wise Hawthorden and Sterling's Lord.)

But Time, with Iron Teeth, I ween

Has canker'd all its Branches round; No Fruit or Bloffom to be seen,

Its Head reclîning tow'rds the Ground,


* Sir Archibald Achefon, Secretary of State for Scotland.

+ Drummond of Hawthorden, and Sir William Alexander, E. of Sterling, both famous for their Poetry, who werg Friends to Sir Archibald.

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