When Athens was for Arts and Arm… Olympic Wreaths uncommon Merit cr… These slight Distinctions from th… Convey’d eternal Honour with the… ’Twas this, the gen’rous Love of…

Children are snatch’d away sometim… To punish Parents for their Crime… Thy Mother’s Merit was so great, Heav’n hasten’d thy untimely Fate… To make her Character complete.

This Present from a lovely Dame, Fair and unsully’d, as her Fame, Shall to Hibernia be convey’d, Where once, rever’d, her Father s… And taught the drooping Arts to s…

Ye heedless Fair, who trifle Life… Let either Brownlow set your Noti… Be, like the Daughter, innocently… Or, like the Mother, prudent and…

Is what we owe great William then Forgotten by ungrateful Men? And has His Fame run out its Dat… Who snatch’d us from the Brink of… Else, why should Scholars, Sir,…

Obrian, were in Story told, Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old: In fair Hibernia’s Isle they reig… A Country, by their Sons disdain’… Too apt to charge their Native Is…

All—bounteous Heav’n, Castalio cr… With bended Knees, and lifted Eye… When shall I have the Pow’r to bl… And raise up Merit in Distress? How do our Hearts deceive us here…

Start not, nor tremble at the Sig… It comes not written from the Rea… ’Tis true, you see, your once—lov’… Thence may conclude from Heav’n s… Conscious perhaps of your celestia…

’Tis Time to conclude; for I make… To leave off all Writing, when Co… He dislikes what I’ve written, an… To send what he calls a poetical… To this I reply’d, You are out of…

Thou glorious Ruler of the beaute… Have sev’nteen Years so swiftly r… Hast thou so oft the heav’nly Cir… When scarce I thought thy radiant… Never shall I my fleeting Time re…

Let Others speak your Titles, and… Accept from Me the glorious Name… This Honour only from fair Virtue… Ennobles Slaves, adds Dignity to… O Born to shew Nobility design’d

Say, my Hortensia, in this silent… When the pale Queen of Night exer… What Guardian—Angels on thy Slum… To paint the Glories of thy futur… To shew what Mansions, in the Rea…

When you command, the Muse obeys, Proud to present her humble Lays. Of writing I’ll no more repent, Nor think my Time unwisely spent; If Verse the Happiness procures

Madam, I hear, and hear with Sorr… That we’re to lose Your Grace To… Nor you alone, but Lady Di. Where, thus deserted, shall I fly… Am I condemn’d to live in Pain,

How gladly, Madam, would I go, To see your Gardens, and Chateau; From thence the fine Improvements… Or walk your verdant Avenue; Delighted, hear the Thrushes sing…