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Dimples, where love conceal'd in ambush lay,
To aim his arrows at the destin'd prey ;
And lips that promis'd in each balmy kiss
Luxurious harvest of ambrosial bliss.
Musing she sat, and watch'd each rising grace
That Thed its luftre o'er her heav'nly face,
Till lab'ring grief her anxious silence broke,
And sighing thus the lovely mourner spoke :
Were charms like these by erring nature meant
For sober solitude and calm content?
Muft

eyes so bright be doom'd to waste their fires
On hungry parsons and unfeeling squires ;
Heav'n whose decrees (if true what priests have taught)
Are fram'd by justice and with wisdom fraught,
Sure ne'er created such a form as this
For the dull purpose of domestie bliss.
Ah! no, these eyes were giv'n in courts to shine ;
Shall impious man then thwart the wise design?
A short-liv'd sway of some few years at most
Is all, alas! the brightest belle can boast
Ere yet the hand of all-devouring time
Lay waste her graces, and destroy her prime :
By flow degrees she feels her pow'r decay,
And younger beauties bear the palm away.
Whilft envious fate thus haftens to destroy
The fleeting period of all female joy,
Shall barb'rous husbands (whose tyrannic rage
Nor pray’rs can mitigate, nor tears assuage)
E’en in those years while youth and beauty bloom,
To exile half her precious moments doom?
She

goes like some neglected flow'r to fade,
And waste her sweetness in the lonely shade,
Till winter (so the pitying gods decree)
Returning sets th' impatient captive free :
Then swift emerging from the dull retreat,
To town she fies, admiring crowds to meet :
Her happy hours glide on from morn to night,
One ceaseless round of exquisite delight:
Balls, op'ras, concerts, Almacks, and Soho,
By turns attended, various joys bestow :

E’èn crowded routs where dullness ever dwells,
Can yield delight to fashionable belles.
Old maids and prudes each night, to feed their fplcen,
There, seeking whom they may devour, are seen,
And, still repining that they must be chafte,
Would mar those pleasures they're forbid to taste;
With envious eye the brilliant nymph they view,
Whilst eager crowds where'er she moves pursue.
If to the play-house Me by chance repair,
(Not oft frequented by the well bred fair)
When through the house a solemn tilonce reigns;
Each bofom feeling what the actor feigns,
E’en in the midst of some affecting part,
That wakes each soft emotion of the heart,
The doors fly open whilst the pit beneath
Their discontent in fullen murmurs breathe :
Forward Mhe steps with graceful air, and spreads
A blaze of beauty o'er their wond’ring heads :
Pit, boxes, gall’ries, all at once concur,
Forget the play, and fix their eyes on her.
Scarce to the Itage she turns her high-plum'd head,
Or seems to mark one syllable that's said;
But careless fits, and on her arm reclin'd
Hears civil speeches from the beaux behind;
Or gendy liftens while some well-dress'd youth
In whisper'd accents vows eternal truth.
Obedient till to pleasure's sprightly call
She quits the play, and seeks the livelier ball
Each white glov'd beau with haste his suit prefers,
Presents his hand, and humbly begs for hers.
Well pleas'd the hears the suppliant crowds intreat,
And feels the triumph of her charms complete.
Should some bleft youth be to the rest preferid,
Whose vows in private are with favour hcard,
As through the dance with graceful cafe she moves;
Their meeting hands express their conscious loves,
Malicious eyes the lover's looks reftrain,
And cold discretion Soale his lips in vain;

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The faithful hand can unobserv'd impart
The secret feelings of a tender heart :
And oh! whạt bliss, when each alike is pleas'd !
The hand that squeezes, and the hand that's squeez'd,
But whither, whither does my fancy roam;
Ah! let me call the idle wand'rer home..
Already Phæbus, with unwelcome ray,
Has chas'd, alas! the winter's fogs away ;
Through the fad town, at each deserted door,
Less frequent now the footman's thunders roar,
And waggon's loading in the dusty street,
Forbode the horrors of a long retreat.
Ve fifter suff'rers, who must foon or late
All share my sorrows, and partake my fate,
Who, when condemn’d these blest abodes to quit,
Like me may weep, but must like me fubmit,
When overcome by man's superior force,
Revenge is still the injured fair's resource :
Revenge at least may make our fuff'rings less,
A husband's anguish fooths a wife's distress,
When far from town, in some fequefter'd spot,
You mourn the hardship of our sex's lot,
Ill humour, vapours, fullenness and spleen,
May add fresh horrors to the gloomy scene,
And make the tyrants who contrive your

fate
Partake the inisery themselves create.
if, press'd by cares, they need a friend's relief,
Be all your ftudy to augment their grief;
If pleas'd or gay, your utmost arts employ
To fink their spirits and dispel their joy ;
Oppose their projects, cross their fav'rite views,
Their wihes frustrate, their requefts refuse ;
And make them feel that discontented wives
Can prove the torment of their husband's lives.

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By the Right Hor. the Earl of CARLISLE.

Po

OET of nature, thou whose boundless art
Describ'd each power that rules the throbbing

heart,
Feigo'd all that love, that glory e'er inspir’d,
That warm'd a Romeo, or a Percy fir'd,
In love's sweet cause be now thy magic try'd,
And charm with future scenes my destin'd bride!

a

Lo! at thy call, fiends cross the blasted heath,
And rising spectres daunt the pale Macbeth,
Who doom'd by guilt his anxious eye to caft
O'er dim futurity's unravellid waste,
On alien brows beheld his wrested crown,
Deplor'd the past, and saw the future frown!

Ol, once again these wond'rous spells prepare,
With milder visions point thi' embodied air !
No more in caves let fires infernal glow,
Nor call thy phantoms from the world below.
In Laura's fight let Hymnen's altar blaze,
Let Cupid's torch diffuse its brightest rays,
Let smiling hours in festive circles dance,
And white-rob'd priests to meet our steps advance ;
Ju distant view be love's clear pledges shown,
And all the long succession live our own!

Still may

So, round the favour'd tomb, thy hallow d urn, May ev'ry muse her vestal incense burn!

those laureat brows their honours wear, Secure from critics, eavy, and Voltaire ! Still on the stage thou reard'st may Garrick stand, For Shakespeare's lyre obeys no other hand! Still sleep thy page near Laura's pillow plac'd, And future comments grace thee like the la!!

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