When, Chloe, I confess my pain, In gentle words your pity show; But gentle words are all in vain, Such gales my flame but higher blow. Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made, Yourself upon my bleeding heart― Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid. Thus for the viper’s sting we know, No surer remedy is found, Than to apply the tort’ring foe, And squeeze his venom on the wound _Epitaph on an unknown Person._ Without a name, for ever senseless, dumb, Dust, ashes, nought else, lies within this tomb. Where’er I lived, or died, it matters not; To whom related, or by whom begot; I was, but am not, ask no more of me― It’s all I am, and all that thou shalt be. _Epitaph._ Here lies a lady, who, if not belied, Took wise St Paul’s advice, and all things tried; Nor stopt she here; but followed through the rest, And always stuck the longest to the best. _In a window of a room in the Tower of London is written_; R. WALPOLE, 1712. _Underneath that, are the following lines_: Good unexpected, evil unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene: Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound to rise again. _The Artist._ BY MR. CONCANEN. Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan, And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye; When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on, Till he thought he had an original drawn, Which you proved to be only a copy. _Epitaph on a talkative old Maid._ Beneath this silent stone is laid A noisy antiquated maid, Who, from her cradle, talked till death, And ne’er before was out of breath. Whither she’s gone we cannot tell, For if she talks not she’s in hell: If she’s in heaven she’s there unblest, Because she hates a place of rest. _A Simile._ Women to cards may be compared: we play A round or two; when used, we throw away, Take a fresh pack; nor is it worth our grieving Who cuts and shuffles with the dirty leaving. * * * * * Thais, her teeth are black and naught, Lucania’s white are grown: But what’s the reason? These are bought, The other wears her own. _The disappointed Husband._ _Mulieri ne crede, ne mortuæ quidem._