Who often times, in soft address, Did strive our favour to obtain, While we of fortitude possess’d, Refus’d their offers with disdain. They vow’d we would their ruin prove, Persisting in our cruelty; But we were wont to laugh at love, And little Cupid’s darts defy. We ever arm’d were cap-a-pee; Indiff’rence was our favourite shield; But by some fatal destiny, My sister languish’d in the field. Depriv’d of all defensive arms, (I sigh, my tears begin to flow) And slain by a sea captain’s charms, She married was a month ago. In an unlucky moment he, From Plutus sure had learn’d the art, Made his empoison’d arrows flee, Till one of them did pierce her heart. She did not wish to find relief, But an ignoble victim fell, Which fill’d our parents’ hearts with grief; Their sorrows great what tongue can tell? The balsam of advice was brought, With drops of strict authority; Prescriptions still to shun she sought, Nor would the medicines apply. With water of forgetfulness, She oft was bid to bathe the wound: The search was vain, she did protest This water never could be found. It griev’d us much thus to behold Our counsels slighted with disdain: His feather’d darts were tipp’d with gold, Which render’d every effort vain. But conscious that our parents dear Could not behold the fatal blow, To make the stroke seem less severe, She at a distance met the foe. Her peerless charms she there resign’d, Compell’d by love’s supreme command; A clown by travels much refin’d Did eager clasp her beauteous hand. I will lament a sister lost. Ah! ladies hear my piteous moan, Depriv’d of what I once could boast, I now must keep the field alone. What though I no assistance have, I hope to act courag’ously, The subtle foe still to outbrave, And man’s seducing arts defy. The rich, the poor, the proud, the slave, The fop, the clown, the low, the tall, The gay, the giddy, or the grave, I scornfully defy them all. THE _RIVAL SWAINS_. While o’er the plains stern winter bore the sway, And Sol from Capricorn diffus’d his ray, Nigh Bolton Gate, beneath a hawthorn shade, Two rural swains sad lamentations made: Each for an absent damsel seem’d to mourn, While throbbing breasts did sigh for sigh return. Young D----y’s notes and T--’s fond praises prov’d, That D----h T----r was the maid belov’d. Says D--k, “O had I these sweet hours again, I’ve spent with her; but ah! I wish in vain. The nymph is fled; to Manchester she’s gone, Nor heeds my sighs, nor yet regards my moan: Her cruel aunts did contribute their aid, To banish from my sight the lovely maid. O little Cupid, choose two fatal darts, And with a vengeance, send them to their hearts; May they endure the agonizing pain Of love, yet ever unbelov’d remain; And, when far hence, by death they’re doom’d to go, Then let their task be leading apes below.