Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier. We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower, We’ll roam thro’ the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed. We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. The Epitaph Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage If you rattle along like your Mistress’ tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart; But a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road, If your stuff be as rotten’s her heart. Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev’n damn’d him when laid in his grave; “In his flesh there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries, “And his heart is rank poison!” another replies. Epistle From Esopus To Maria From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate.