Thou'lt ask me not to name him.

On the Death of a promising Youth of Eighteen.
THOUGH death the virtuous young destroy,
They go to rest, and heavenly joy:
Life is not to be judg'd by days;
Virtue endures when time decays;
And many old we falsely call,
Who truly never liv'd at all:
For what is time, if not employed
In worthy deeds, but all a void?
Then think not, though abridg'd by fate,
Too short this youth's allotted date;
With dignity he fill'd his span,
In conduct and in worth a man.
So spent a life to Heaven appears
As full as Nestor's length of years.

|A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace,
That the case he durst never express:
But little he says, and if that you will trace,
His knowledge you'll find to be less.
Then sure you will say he's deficient in brain;
Or his head to a still you'll compare,
That does little or nothing but simples contain,
And yields them by drops that are rare.

A Distich written by Mr. CowPER, at the Re-
quest of a Gentleman who importuned him
to write something in his Pocket Album.
I WERE indeed indifferent to fame,
Grudging two lines t' immortalize my name.

To an unfortunate Beauty.

SAY, lovely maid, with downcast eye,
And cheek with silent sorrow pale,
What gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh,
That heaving tells a mournful tale?
Thy tears, which thus each other chase,

Bespeak a breast o'erwhelm'd with woe;
Thy sighs, a storm which wrecks thy peace,
Which souls like thine should never know.
Oh! tell me, doth some favor'd youth,
Too often blest, thy beauties slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip, and bosom of delight?
What though to other nymphs he flies,

And feigns the fond, impassion'd tear,
Breathes all the eloquence of sighs

That, treach'rous, won thy artless ear?-
Let not those nymphs thy anguish move,
For whom his heart may seem to pine:
That heart shall ne'er be blest by love,
Whose guilt can force a pang from thine.

Conscience.

THE Chartreux wants the warning of a bell
To call him to the duties of his cell;
There needs no noise at all t' awaken sin :
Th' adulterer and thief his 'larum has within.

Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C
Pawlet was sitting to him.
COSWAY, my Cath'rine sits to you;
And, that the col'ring may be true,
This nosegay on your pallet place,
Replete with all the tints that grace
The various beauties of her face.
Her skin the snow-drop's whiteness shows.
Her blushing cheek the op'ning rose:
Her eyes the modest violet speak,
Whose silken fringes kiss her cheek.
The spicy pink, in morning dew,
Presents her fragrant lips to view.
The glossy curls that crown her head,
Paint from the gilt cup of the mead.
Long may her image fill my eye,
When these fair emblems fade and die;
Placed on my faithful breast, and prove
'Tis Cosway paints the Queen of Love.

On a Waiter, once at Arthur's, and a Fellow-WIDE over the tremulous sea

servant of his there, both since Members of
Parliament, and the last a Nabob.

WHEN Bob M-ck-th, with upper servant's
pride,
[cried,

"Here, sirrah, clean my shoes," to Rumb-
He humbly answer'd, "Yea, Bob:"
But since return'd from India's plunder'd land,«
The purse-proud Rumb-d now, on such com-
mand,

Would stoutly answer, "Nay, Bob."

Vain search, if here the source thou'dst know The tyrant is robb'd of his prize,

Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made
Such lips, such eyes, as Chloe never had;
"Ye Gods!" she cries in ecstasy of heart,
"How near can nature be express'd by art!
Well, it is wondrous like! nay, let me die,
The very pouting lip, the killing eye!"—
Blunt and severe as Manly in the play,
Downright replies: "Like, madam, do you say?
The picture bears this likeness, it is true:
The canvass painted is, and so are you."

My sickly spouse with many a sigh
Oft tells me "Billy, I shall die!"
I griev'd, but recollected straight
Tis bootless to contend with fate;
So resignation to Heaven's will
Prepar'd me for succeeding ill.
"Twas well it did; for, on my life,
Twas Heaven's will-to spare my wife.

As Sherlock at Temple was taking a boat, The waterman ask'd him which way he would float.

"Which way?" says the Doctor: "why, fool, with the stream."

To Paul's or to Lambeth, 'twas all one to him,

By fav'ring wit Mæcenas purchas'd fame, Virgil's own works immortaliz'd his name: A double share of fame is Dorset's due, At once the patron and the poet too.

A WELSHMAN and an Englishman disputed, Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows, Which of their lands maintain'd the greatest And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws. state; [futed, Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains, The Englishman the Welshman quite con- Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains. The Welshman yet would not his vaunts Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee. abate. [ding sees." That hoary season yields a type of me.

The French Poet.

WHEN old Elijah, as the Scriptures say,
Triumphant mounted to the realms of day,
His spirit doubled, and his cloak beside,
He gave Elisha, by long service tried.
Tristan from hence would fain example take,
For honest Quinault his disciple's sake;
But this, alas! injurious Fate denied,
For Tristan poorer than a prophet died.
To Quinault thus the bard, expiring, spoke :
"My wit I leave thee-but I have no cloak."

Dr. ALDRICH'S Five Reasons for Drinking.
GOOD wine; a friend; or being dry;
Or least we should be by and by;
Or any other reason why.

By WALLER.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspir'd train,
Fair Saccharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phoebus sung the no less am'rous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely and as coy.
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use;
All, but the nymph who should redress his
wrong,

Attend his passion, and approve his song:
Like Phœbus thus acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

By PRIOR,

To Lady Isabella Thynne, cutting Trees in ON his death-bed poor Simon lies,

Paper. WALler.

FAIR hand, that can on virgin paper write, Yet from the stain of ink preserve it white; Whose travel o'er that silver field does show Like tracks of leverets in morning snow : Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange, that your fingers should the pencil foil, Without the help of colors or of oil!

For, though a painter boughs and leaves can
make,

'Tis yours alone to make them bend and shake,
Whose breath salutes your new-created grove
Like southern winds, and makes it gently move.
Orpheus could make the forest dance, but you
Can make the motion and the forest too.
A poet, when he would describe his mind,
Is, as in language, so in fame, confin'd;
Your works are read wherever there are men:
So far the scissors go beyond the pen.

His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
"A diff'rent cause," says Parson Sly,
"The same effect may give;
Poor Simon fears that he shall die,
His wife that he may live."

Written on the Bed-chamber Door of
Charles II. ROCHESTER.
HERE lies our sovereign lord the King,
Whose word no man relies on;
He never says a foolish thing,

Nor ever does a wise one.

To Phyllis.