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…

Uncommon Charms, I plainly see, Compleat the Fair for Tyranny. Then, lest your Form should make… Of Conquest, and of giving Pain, Those, whom your Beauties have en…

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…

WELL you Sincerity display, A virtue wond’rous rare! Nor value, tho’ the world should s… You’re rude, so you’re sincere. To be sincere, then, give me leave…

Shall for the Man of Ross thy Ly… And sleeps illustrious Thanet yet… Since to distinguish Merit is thy… Let Thanet in thy deathless Prais… Let me, unequal to the Task, exci…

A wretch, in smoaky Dublin pent, Who rarely sees the Firmament, You graciously invite, to view The Sun’s enliv’ning Rays with yo… To change the Town for flow’ry Me…

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…

Written when the Author was sick. Somnus, pow’rful Deity, Mortals owe their Bliss to thee. How long shall I thy Absence mour… And when be bless’d in thy Return…

Not Persia’s Monarch could, unmov… Those num’rous Hosts, which Time… He wept Misfortunes of a distant… I mourn the Rigour of my instant… The dreaded Hour approaching fast…

Lovely Armina, o’er her Books rec… Impairs her Body, to improve her… Of Wisdom fond, as others are of… In that Pursuit will sacrifice he… Then, Miser—like, when she has ga…

I little thought that honest Dick Would slight me so, when I was si… Is he a Friend, who only stays, Whilst Health and Pleasure gild o… Flies, when Disease our Temper so…

Let me the Honour soon obtain, For which I long have hop’d in va… Since I, alas! am now confin’d, Your Visit would be doubly kind. What Sorrows have I not to fear,

To Day, as at my Glass I stood, To set my Head—cloaths, and my Ho… I saw my grizzled Locks with Drea… And call’d to mind the Gorgon’s H… Thought I, whate’er the Poets say…

How well these Laymen love to gib… And throw their Jests on Levi’s… Must One be toil’d to Death, they… Whilst other Priests are yawning… Forgetful that He reaps the Gain,

Since Milo rallies sacred Writ, To win the Title of a Wit; ’Tis pity but he shou’d obtain it, Who bravely pays his Soul to gain…