Since no damsel will shrink from a peep at the breast, Where her own lovely form is so sweetly imprest, For should she regret that the picture's ill plac'd, Yet she'll value the wearer for exquisite taste. My Agnes of late has convers'd more than common, With a Mrs. Latouche a most excellent woman, Whose husband like many brave fellows beside, By his country was torn from the arms of his bride, For three years has he left her his absence to mourn, But she now has some hopes of his speedy return, She visits this place with a poor ailing aunt, Whom she tends with that kindness all invalids want, And proves in her tenderness, faithfulness, duty, Her virtue at least is as great as her beauty, Twin soul with my charmer I think it no wonder, (Tho' I'm sorry sometimes) they are seldom asunder, I fancy whenever I see them conversing, The wife all the worth of her lord is rehearsing, But I dare not yet hope that my Agnes replies, By adverting to poor Mr. Blunderhead's eyes. But my hopes or my fears I'll no longer intrude, For this monstrous long scrawl 'tis high time to conclude. &c. &c. &c. LETTER IX. _High Harrogate, August 30th._ Dear mother I've so much to say in my letter, Tho' the last was too long I fear this wo'nt be better, And someway I never know how to begin, When I've got a great many fine things to bring in; Nor can I with truth to our mutual relief, Declare in the first place I mean to be brief, For I know to my sorrow no Blunderhead yet, Could ever the talent of brevity get, So I still must go on with my doggerel chatter, And your pardon implore for "extraneous matter." You must know all this summer 't has been much the rage, For High Harrogate parties new scenes to engage, Leaving Studley and Hackfall and huge Brimham rocks, And assemble like swallows in emigrant flocks, Unmindful what terrible roads they must jolt on, To view the fine grounds and the ruins of Bolton, And yesterday morn a large party set out, To partake the delights of this picturesque rout. Fair Fenton, sweet Agnes, and lovely Latouche, Were all drove by Sir George in his splendid barouche, And if ever I envy'd a man so before, I will leave you to judge--but I now say no more. The rest in a chariot, and curricles went, And set off pretty early by general consent, At the Blubber-house Inn we all gladly alighted, By the sight of an excellent breakfast invited, Which enabled us all to endure future jumbling, And substitute laughter for hunger, and grumbling, When arrived at the bridge the first glimpse of the scene, Majestic yet simple, tho' grand yet serene, Gave presentiment sweet of the pleasure before us, And our hearts with the music of nature kept chorus, We just stopp'd at the Inn to enquire for a guide, And while saunt'ring around till this want was supplied,