(2) In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cank’ring eld defaced, In which, when he receives his diadem, Our sov’reign prince and liefest liege is placed, The matron sate; and some with rank she grac’d, (The source of children’s and of courtier’s pride!) Redress’d affronts, for vile affronts there pass’d; And warn’d them not the fretful to deride, But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Right well she knew each temper to decry; To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise; Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, And some entice with pittance small of praise; And other some with baleful sprig she frays; Ev’n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways; Forewarn’d, if little bird their pranks behold, ’Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. SHENSTONE, _The Schoolmistress_, 1742 (3) But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper’d promis’d pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail; Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call’d on Echo still, through all the song: And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil’d, and wav’d her golden hair. COLLINS, _The Passions_, 1747 (4) There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving-maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy followed him through foaming waves To distant shores, and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy, too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death, And never smiled again. COWPER, _The Task_, 1785 (5) How sweet I roamed from field to field, And tasted all the summer’s pride; Till I the Prince of Love beheld, Who in the sunny beams did glide. He showed me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow: He led me through his gardens fair, Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, And Phœbus fired my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage.