Their suit was granted—up they came New-liveried in sulphur flame, With licence thro’ the realm to range; But, with their pow’r, their name they change. Magic no longer now is seen, And what was Witchcraft once, is Spleen: Yet still they most delight to vex, As first they did, the female sex; And still, like an old witch’s charm, They tease, but have no power to harm. Tho’ Doctors otherwise have told, The tale is true that I unfold: And with my system suits the name, For Spleen and Vapours are the same; And all the country people know That these, ascending from below, Are DEVILS of peculiar hue, And from their colour call them BLUE. LINES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A LADY’S ALMANAC. Go happy lines, yet fearful go, To meet Louisa’s secret eye! Tell what I wish her heart should know, Yet, rather than declare, I die. Perhaps she’ll scorn ye, and despise The tribute of a heart so poor— Too valueless to be the prize Of Beauty, proudest conqueror. Then tell her that her touch alone Destroys your pencil’d forms with ease; And say your fate is like my own, To be or not, as she shall please. But should her gentleness now spare, Pass one short year, and ye are not! A little year shall send you where You’ll perish among things forgot; Yet so, how envied should you be! For who is he would not prefer Before an immortality, To live a year, a day with Her? I fear she’ll turn ye all to jest: Then let her know I’ve made my prayer, That, when by beaux, smart beaux, carest, She ne’er may feel a tender care! But while they sigh, or kneel, or vow, Think it all done in sport and play; Or write love-rhymes (as I do now), Laugh, but not trust a word they say. TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN, WITH THOMSON’S SEASONS, DOUBLED DOWN AT THE STORY OF PALEMON AND LAVINIA. Anna, when you shall read in this true tale How young Lavinia from her lowly state Was led to splendor, wealth, and dignity, By generous Palemon wooed and won To be his bride, (such happy fortune found Her virtues, and deserved no less)—so think Your beauty, temper’d with sweet bashful grace Of modesty and native elegance, So think these charms—not sparingly bestow’d But in the pride and prodigality Of liberal Nature, fashioning her work To a rare excellence,—these shall inflame Each generous heart with love, and the dear hope To win your gentle favour, and possess A lovelier Lavinia found in you. SONNET.