You laugh, dear Sir, and pray what then, Must Flavia call you best of men? Must high encomiums grace her lays, And all her notes be swell’d with praise? Know Sir, when friendship does commence, All flatt’ry must be spurn’d from thence: No real friendship can exist, In the disembling flatt’rer’s breast. What can poor Flavia then bestow, But wish you still may better grow? Your wit still more and more refine, } And all the beauties of your min’, } With radient lustre ever shine; } In virtue’s paths, still on to tread, Which to the fair Elysium lead; May every action justly claim The Poet’s wish, that thing call’d Fame. As through life’s winding vale you rove, May still your stars propitious prove, And richest blessings on you shower; May sweet contentment grace your bower; By love and fortune ever crown’d, May honour all your wishes bound. Nor access find within your breast, One thought your friend would wish supprest; And may they soon at Tyburn swing, Who would not sign what here I sing. _TO NELL_ WHEN AT MOFFAT WELL. On the delightful banks of Mein, The muse laments in pensive strain; The nymphs assembl’d on the green, Of Nelly’s absence all complain. Our rural swains no joys can find, But still in pensive silence mourn; With heads upon the turf reclin’d They sigh, and wish your swift return. Oft have they curs’d fair Moffat town, With all the virtues of the Well; The sprightly Beau, and rustic clown, Of Nelly’s charms delight to tell. Dear maid, it is for you alone, They spend whole days and nights in sighs; And will you disregard their moan, And all their plaintive notes despise? ’Tis Autumn now, the fertile field, Rich Ceres decks with yellow grain; With joy we would our sickles wield, If Nelly deign’d to grace the plain. Come now and of our labours share; None better can that weapon ply; O mitigate Philander’s care, Whose toil seems less when you are nigh. Once more, dear Nell, I’d wish to see You cheerful join the rural throng; Your presence would enhance our glee, And sweetly animate my song. A _YOUNG LADY’S LAMENTATION_ FOR THE LOSS OF HER SISTER BY MARRIAGE. What tongue can half my woes express? What force of eloquence can tell? The causes of my deep distress Are such as ever seem to swell. My parents not ignoble were; My father once a merchant fam’d; But now in a superior sphere, ’Mongst _landed gentlemen_ he’s nam’d. My mother, of no mean extract: The famous Freyburgh gave her birth; With wit and prudence still she’ll act; None more accomplished on earth. My brethren all for valour fam’d, Their merit great, what pen can show; Their praise has been by fame proclaim’d, While justly in esteem they grow. I had one only sister dear; Our parents’ joy and pride were we; Our charms attractive did appear To men of high and low degree: