Who was’t, regardless of her nuptial vows, To Atreus’ son betray’d her Trojan spouse, And saw him sink beneath the murd’rer’s blows? A Woman. Who was it caus’d the deadly strife to grow Betwixt Pelides and his royal foe, And brought on Greece unutterable woe? A Woman. When Agamemnon (through all Greece renown’d) From Trojan wars returned, with conquest crown’d, Who caus’d th’ unguarded monarch’s mortal wound? A Woman. Who was’t, with witchcraft, and each am’rous wile, Detain’d Ulysses from his native isle, His wife’s embraces, and his parent’s smile? A Woman. When Antony’s victorious arms had gain’d One half the world, o’er which he jointly reign’d, Who caus’d his death, and all his glory stain’d? A Woman. Who was’t the royal Edward’s life betray’d, The unhappy martyr’s confidence repaid, By plunging in his heart the assassin’s blade, A Woman. Who was’t, inflam’d with false religious ire, Caus’d Latimer and Ridley to expire, Roasted like lobsters in a Smithfield fire? A Woman. Who still in man’s weak heart retains her place, And with a smile upon a lovely face, Can lure the fool to misery and disgrace? False Woman. _The Duel, with other Poems_, by L. O. SHAW, Blackburn, printed and sold by T. Rogerson, 1815. (Referring to this Poem, in his preface, the author quaintly remarks “Truth offends none but fools and knaves.”) ――――:o:―――― ODE XXV. MY GODWIN! _Parcius junctas quatiunt fenastras._ Our Temple youth, a lawless train, Blockading Johnson’s window pane, No longer laud thy solemn strain, My Godwin! “Chaucer’s” a mighty tedious elf, “Fleetwood” lives only for himself, And “Caleb Williams” loves the shelf, My Godwin! No longer cry the sprites unblest, “Awake! Arise! Stand forth confess’d!” For fallen, fallen is thy crest, My Godwin! Thy muse for meretricious feats, Does quarto penance now in sheets, Or cloathing parcels roams the streets, My Godwin! Thy name at Luna’s lamp thou light’st, Blank is the verse that thou indit’st, Thy play is damn’d, yet still thou writ’st, My Godwin! And still to wield the grey goose quill, When Phœbus sinks, to feel no chill, “With me is to be lovely still,” My Godwin! Thy winged steed (a bit of blood) Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood, To leave thee sprawling in the mud, My Godwin!