Comes nearest us in human shape; Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion; But both in malice and grimaces 45 A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him humbly cringing wait Upon a minister of state; View him soon after to inferiors, Aping the conduct of superiors; 50 He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators; At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their master’s manners still contract, 55 And footmen, lords and dukes can act. Thus at the court both great an small Behave alike—for all ape all. A SONNET WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight; MYRA, too sincere for feigning, Fears th’ approaching bridal night. Yet, why impair thy bright perfection? 5 Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had MYRA followed my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear. STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 5 Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear; QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: 10 Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead— Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise! AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam BLAIZE, Who never wanted a good word— _From those who spoke her praise._ The needy seldom pass’d her door, 5 And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor,— _Who left a pledge behind._ She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wond’rous winning, 10 And never follow’d wicked ways,— _Unless when she was sinning._ At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber’d in her pew,— 15 _But when she shut her eyes._ Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The king himself has follow’d her,— _When she has walk’d before._ 20 But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead,— _Her last disorder mortal._