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Lady Mary W***, to Sir W*** Y***
Since how can I speak without pain
Ah! can't you their meaning explain? My passion wou'd lose by expression,
And you too might cruelly blame :
Why shou'd you expect it of me?
'Till you tell us what they shou'd be. Then quickly why don't you discover ? Did your
breast feel tortures like mine, Eyes need not tell over and over
What I in my bosom confine.
A man must needs look like a fool;
For one that is kind out of rule.
At least you might stay for my offer,
Not snatch like old maids in despair,
And not speak the matter so plain ;
'Tis yours to affect a disdain.
By all your sweet ogles I see;
Indeed is too mellow for me.
Miss Soper's Answer to'a Lady, who invited
her to retire into a monastic Life at St. Cross, near WINCHESTER.
To desart and to shade;
And solitude commend.
Each swain will dig to find ;
For dross is left behind.
REPENTANCE. By the Same.
I examin'd my heart,
And methinks I'm inclin'd
To a change of my mind,
And make ourselves good,
Is in truth to reveal
What we'd better conceal,
To our praise to be found,
Unspotted and pure;
Tho' not so demure,
IV. Then bidding farewell
To the thoughts of a cell, I'll
prepare for a militant life; And if brought to distress,
Why then I'll confefs,
A SONG. By T. P***cy.
Nancy, wilt thou
The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer dress’d in filken sheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say can'ít thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ? Say canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
O Nancy! can'st thou love fo true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
scenes recall Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
And clear with smiles the bed of death?
Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear,
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?
CYNTHIA, an Elegiac
an Elegiac Poem.
By the Same.
Whose spreading arms with gray mofs fringed were,