* * * * *

VERSES

  WRITTEN AT THE BEQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A
  LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE.

  What hopes, what terrors, does this gift create,
  Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate! 
  The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
  Consign’d to Venus by Melissa’s hand),
  Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
  Oft favours, oft rejects a lover’s prayer. 
  In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
  In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain. 
  The myrtle crowns the happy lovers’ heads,
  The unhappy lovers’ graves the myrtle spreads. 
  Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
  And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart;
  Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom,
  Adorn Philander’s head, or grace his tomb.

* * * * *

  TO LADY FIREBRACE,[1]

  AT BURY ASSIZES.

  At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
  So long renown’d in B—­n’s deathless strain? 
  Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace! might inspire
  Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;
  For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
  Thou seem’st at once, bright nymph! a Muse and Grace.

[Footnote 1:  ‘Lady Firebrace:’  daughter of P. Bacon, Ipswich, married three times—­to Philip Evers, Esq., to Sir Corbell Firebrace, and to William Campbell, uncle of the Duke of Argyle.]

* * * * *

  TO LYCE,

  AN ELDERLY LADY.

  1 Ye Nymphs whom starry rays invest,
      By flattering poets given,
    Who shine, by lavish lovers dress’d,
      In all the pomp of Heaven.

  2 Engross not all the beams on high,
      Which gild a lover’s lays,
    But, as your sister of the sky,
      Let Lyce share the praise.

  3 Her silver locks display the moon,
      Her brows a cloudy show,
    Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen,
      And showers from either flow.

  4 Her teeth the night with darkness dyes;
      She’s starr’d with pimples o’er;
    Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
      And can with thunder roar,

  5 But some Zelinda, while I sing,
      Denies my Lyce shines;
    And all the pens of Cupid’s wing
      Attack my gentle lines.

  6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda’s eye,
      And all her bards express,
    My Lyce makes as good a sky,
      And I but flatter less.

* * * * *

  ON THE DEATH OF MR ROBERT LEVETT,

  A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

  1 Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,
      As on we toil from day to day,
    By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
      Our social comforts drop away.

  2 Well tried through many a varying year,
      See Levett to the grave descend;
    Officious, innocent, sincere,
      Of every friendless name the friend.