Little Casket!  Storehouse rare
Of rich conceits, to please the Fair! 
Happiest he of mortal men,—­
(I crown him monarch of the pen,)—­
To whom Sophia deigns to give
The flattering prerogative
To inscribe his name in chief,
On thy first and maiden Leaf. 
When thy pages shall be full
Of what brighter wits can cull
Of the Tender or Romantic,
Creeping Prose or Verse Gigantic,—­
Which thy spaces so shall cram
That the Bee-like Epigram
(Which a two-fold tribute brings,
Honey gives at once, and stings,)
Hath not room left wherewithal
To infix its tiny scrawl;
Haply some more youthful swain,
Striving to describe his pain,
And the Damsel’s ear to seize
With more expressive lays than these,
When he finds his own excluded
And these counterfeits intruded;
While, loitering in the Muse’s bower,
He overstayed the eleventh hour,
Till the tables filled—­shall fret,
Die, or sicken with regret
Or into a shadow pine: 
While this triumphant verse of mine,
Like to some favoured stranger-guest,
Bidden to a good man’s Feast
Shall sit—­by merit less than fate—­
In the upper Seat in State.

TO S[OPHIA] F[REND]

Acrostic

Solemn Legends we are told
Of bright female Names of old,
Phyllus fair, Laodameia,
Helen, but methinks Sophia
Is a name of better meaning
And a sort of Christian leaning.

For it Wisdom means, which passes
Rubies, pearls, or golden masses. 
Ever try that Name to merit;
Never quit what you inherit,
Duly from your Father’s spirit.

TO R[OTHA] Q[UILLINAN]

Acrostic

ROTHA, how in numbers light,
Ought I to express thee? 
Take my meaning in its flight—­
Haste imports not always slight—­
And believe, I bless thee.

TO S[ARAH] L[OCKE]

Acrostic

Shall I praise a face unseen,
And extol a fancied mien,
Rave on visionary charm,
And from shadows take alarm? 
Hatred hates without a cause;

Love may love, with more applause,
Or, without a reason given,
Charmed be with unknown Heaven. 
Keep the secrets, though, unmocked,
Ever in your bosom Locke’d.

TO M[ARY] L[OCKE]

Acrostic

Must I write with pen unwilling
And describe those graces killing
Rightly, which I never saw? 
Yes—­it is the Album’s law.

Let me then Invention strain
On your excelling charms to feign—­
Cold is Fiction?  I believe it
Kindly, as I did receive it,
Even as J.F.’s tongue did weave it.

AN ACROSTIC AGAINST ACROSTICS

[To Edward Hogg]