For every she his bosom burns, And this, and that, he woos by turns; And here a sigh, and there a bill, And here--those eyes! so form'd to kill! And now, with ready tongue, he strings Unmeaning, soft, resistless things; With vows, and dem-me's, skill'd to woo, As other pretty fellows do. Not that he thought this short essay A prologue needful to his play; No, trust me, says our learned letter, He knew the virtuous sex much better; But these he held as specious arts, To shew his own superior parts, The form of decency to shield, And give a just pretence to yield. Thus finishing his courtly play, He mark'd the fav'rite of a day; With careless impudence drew near, And whisper'd HEBREW in her ear: A hint which, like the MASON'S sign, The conscience can alone divine. The flutt'ring nymph, expert at feigning, Cry'd, "Sir, pray sir, explain your meaning! Go prate to those that may endure ye-- To me this rudeness! I'll assure ye!" Then off she glided like a swallow, As saying--you guess where to follow. To such as know the party set, 'Tis needless to say where they met; The PARSON'S barn, as authors mention, Confess'd the fair had apprehension. Her honour there, secure from stain, She held all farther trifling vain; No more affected to be coy, But rush'd, licentious, on the joy. 'Hist, love!' the male companion cry'd, 'Retire awhile, I fear we're 'spy'd:' Nor was the caution vain; he saw A TURTLE rustling in the straw, While o'er her callow brood she hung, And fondly thus address'd her young: "Ye tender objects of my care! Peace, peace, ye little helpless pair; Anon he comes, your gentle sire, And brings you all your hearts require. For us, his infants and his bride, For us, with only love to guide, Our lord assumes an EAGLE'S speed, And, like a LION, dares to bleed. Nor yet by wintry skies confin'd, He mounts upon the rudest wind, From danger tears the vital spoil, And with affection sweetens toil. Ah! cease, too vent'rous--cease to dare, In thine, our dearer safety spare! From him, ye cruel FALCONS, stray; And turn, ye FOWLERS, far away. "Should I survive to see the day, That tears me from myself away; That cancels all that heav'n could give, The life, by which alone I live; Alas! how more than lost were I, Who in the thought already die! "Ye pow'rs, who men and birds obey, Great rulers of your creatures, say, Why mourning comes, by bliss convey'd, And ev'n the sweets of love allay'd? Where grows enjoyment, tall and fair, Around it twines entangling care; While fear, for what our souls possess, Enervates ev'ry pow'r to bless; Yet FRIENDSHIP forms the bliss above, And LIFE, what art thou, without LOVE?"--