With awe, with pleasure and surprise, I view the lightning of your eyes; Lightning! that wounds me as it flies. What prayer! what vow! to Heaven can go? For all devotion you subdue; At least, ’tis all transferred to you. In vain is human strength―its boasted art― While you sit here, you share my vows in part; To Y―[4] I give my ears, to you my eyes and heart. [4] The Minister. _The Lucky Man._ BY MR. WELSTED. I owe, says Metius, much to Colon’s care; Once only seen, he chose me for his heir: True, Metius; hence your fortunes take their rise; His heir you were not, had he seen you twice. _To Mr. T―d, on his complimenting Mr. F―de on his Poetry._ F―de writes well, you say; suppose it true, You pawn your word for him;―he’ll vouch for you; So two poor knaves, when once their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other’s bail. _On a handsome Woman, with a fine voice, but very covetous and proud._ So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts, and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died. _Venus mistaken._ BY MR. PRIOR. When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown, Surprised, the goddess took it for her own; And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleased, Cupid heard, and checked his mother’s pride; And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried. ’Tis Chloe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast, Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest. _Epitaph on Mr. Harcourt’s Tomb._ BY MR. POPE. To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near, Here lies the friend most wept, the son most dear, Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide, Nor gave his father grief―but when he died. How vain is reason! eloquence how weak! When Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Yet let thy once-loved friend inscribe the stone, And with a father’s sorrow mix his own. Ah, no! ’tis vain to strive―it will not be; No grief that can be told is felt for thee. _Prometheus ill-painted._ BY MR. COWLEY. How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear, Whilst he his second misery suffers here. Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands, He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands. It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo, If once again his liver thus should grow. Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow; The flames he once stole from thee grant him now. _On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes._ BY MR. MOTTLEY. Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder, Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder: But thy predictions come not in a storm, They are delivered by the brightest form: If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky, Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye. _The Cure of Love._