Ierne’s now our royal Care: We lately fix’d our Vice—roy ther… How near was she to be undone, Till pious Love inspir’d her Son! What cannot our Vice—gerent do,

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 said, for ev’ry common Grief The Muses can afford Relief: And, surely, on that heav’nly Tra… A Boyle can never call in vain. Then strait invoke the sacred Nin…

My Lord of Killala, I find to my… I can’t have the Honour I hop’d f… But why I’m so wretched, my Frien… For I never can write my Vexation… Disappointments are sent to poor…

’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…

Dear Rose, as I lately was writin… Which I next Day intended in Sch… My Mother came in, and I thought… ‘This Mr. Macmullen has ruin’d my… ‘He uses me ill, and the World sh…

A Curious Statue, we are told, Is priz’d above its Weight in Gol… If the fair Form the Hand confess Of Phidias, or Praxiteles: But if the Artist could inspire

Faint—Fair, and act a Play. In some few Hours we must repair, To act, like Thespis, in the Fair… And, as our Stage is of a Piece With that transmitted down from G…

Stella and Flavia, ev’ry Hour, Unnumber’d Hearts surprize: In Stella’s Soul lies all her Po… And Flavia’s, in her Eyes. More boundless Flavia’s Conquests…

So Ceres, lovely and divine, Eager to see her Proserpine, Blessing the Nations as she pass’… Reach’d the fell Tyrant’s Court a… Around her shot a Gleam of Light,

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

Tho’ Rhyme serves the Thoughts of… It sets off the Sense of small Po… When I’ve written in Prose, I of… That my Sense, in a Jumble of Wo… In Verse, as in Armies, that marc…

We of late had a terrible Rout in… If I happen’d to speak, I was sur… My Mamma had the Tooth—ach, and… O Steel, I for ever will yalue th… Both Children, and Servants, to t…

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,

For give me, fair One, nor resent The Lines to you I lately sent. They seem, as if your Form you pr… And ev’ry other Gift despis’d: When a discerning Eye may find,