Some greet a patroness, all hail a friend, Whose bosom feels seraphic virtues glow; Nor further, madam, do your smiles extend; Vice dreads your frown, and shuns you as a foe. Long may you live admir’d by all, and lov’d, The honour of a long illustrious race; Your worth innate, by Envy’s self approv’d, Which time or sickness never can efface. [1] The Residence of the celebrated Poet, Robert Burns. THE _LOTTERY TICKET_. Celia, fair, beyond description, Soon became the fav’rite toast; Charms unrival’d ev’n by fiction, Did the lovely maiden boast. Beaux and sages, panting, dying, Did of love and her complain, While the nymph, his darts defying, Triumph’d o’er her thousands slain. With their woes too rashly sporting, Still more fatal darts were sought; Anxious to augment her fortune, She a lott’ry-ticket bought. But old Plutus, sullen power, Can the fair and brave withstand; He, in the decisive hour, Shov’d a blank to Celia’s hand: While Brunetta, short of stature, Limbs distorted, shoulders round, Gain’d new charms, in spite of Nature, By good thirty thousand pound. Celia now, with looks dejected, Seem’d the erring wheel to blame, When the god, with brows erected, Did a moment’s audience claim. Go bright Celia, fair and cruel, Still of countless charms secure, Would you heedless add more fuel To the flames you will not cure? View the maid to grief inclined, Though she grasps the golden prize, O how gladly she’d resign it, For the conquests of your eyes! THE _MONTH’S LOVE_. Ye maidens attend to my tale, Of love that sly archer take care; His darts o’er all ranks do prevail, The wealthy, the wise, and the fair. When once his fierce arrow he throws, Contentment will bid you adieu; No potion the doctor bestows, Can then be of service to you. Experience prompts me to tell, I felt his tyrannical sway; The time I remember too well; It was a long month and a day. The youth, I’ll not mention his name, Who was the sole cause of my smart, His deeds were unnotic’d by fame, His manners unpolish’d by art. His person could boast of no charm, His words of no conquering power; Yet his footsteps did give the alarm, Which made my heart beat for an hour. When absent from him I ador’d, One minute as ages did prove; Though plenty replenish’d my board, I fasted and feasted on love. My couch but augmented my pain; No sleep ever closed my eyes; One glance of my rustic young swain Was what I more highly did prize. None ever bemoan’d my sad case; They laugh’d at the ills I endur’d; But time did my sorrows efface, And spite of the imp I was cur’d. I saw my lov’d youth in the shade, Soft whisp’ring to Susan apart; Resentment came quick to my aid, And I banish’d him quite from my heart. But be not too forward, ye fair, Nor take too much courage from me, How many have fall’n in the snare That got not so easily free? _DAMON AND PHILANDER._ DAMON.