Your late kind Gift let me restor… For I must never wear it more. My Mother cries, 'What’s here to… ‘A Crimson Velvet Cap for you! ’If to these Heights so soon you…

WHAT is it our mamma’s bewitches… To plague us little boys with bree… To tyrant Custom we must yield, Whilst vanquish’d Reason flies th… Our legs must suffer by ligation,

To you, Athenians, we again submi… Reward, or punish us, as you think… Let Idleness, unpity’d, meet Disg… For Idleness, this Year, is doubl… This is the Æra, this the destin’d…

I beg your Scholar you’ll excuse, Who dares no more debase the Muse… My Mother says, If e’er she hears… I write again on worthless Peers, Whether they’re living Lords, or…

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.

The Picture strikes—'tis drawn wi… Well has the Poet play’d the Pain… Tho’ ’tis your Glory, yet, my Lor… I grieve the Features fit yoursel… But know, tho’ All agree the Pict…

To the late King of Britain a Sa… Which wild in the Woods of German… This Present so princely was trai… And knew how to eat, and to jump,… The Beaux, and the Belles, beheld…

’Tis theirs, who but to please asp… On Fiction to employ the Lyre; Make Gods and Goddesses display The Splendor of the Nuptial Day. To paint thee at the hallow’d Shr…

These Plains, so joyous once to m… Now sadly chang’d appear: Hortensia I no more can see, Who patroniz’d me here. Fair Excellence, where—e’er you g…

An Epigram You cry, She’s bred in the Old W… Then into Laughter fall: Were she as just to you, she’d say… You are not bred at all.

Goddess of Health, where—e’er you… To Philomela fly; O hasten from your rural Cell, Nor let the Fair one die. Again her Voice divine restore,

O wretch! hath Madness cur’d thy… Yes—All thy Sorrows now are light… No more you mourn your once lov’d… Who bravely perish’d for a thankle… For rolling Years thy Piety preva…

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

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…

I read in your delighted Face, The Nuptial Bands are ty’d: From me congratulate her Grace, Young Portland’s lovely Bride. Tell her, an humble, artless Muse