Here lies honest Strephon with Mary his bride, Who merrily lived and cheerfully died; They laughed and they loved, and drank while they were able, But now they are forced to knock under the table. This marble, which formerly served them to drink on, Now covers their bodies,―and sad thing to think on!― That do what one can to moisten our clay, ’Twill one day be ashes, and moulder away. _On an ugly old Woman in the Dark._ FROM MARTIAL. Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue; What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But, when the candle entered, I was cured. _On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady._ Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it, Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it, Where she ’spied a young damsel so blooming and fair, That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there? Pray is not yon Oxford?―and lately you sware, Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there: Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied? The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied, ―My goddess! what have you your pupil forgot? ―Your pardon, my dear,―Is it you, Molly Scot? _To a Lady who married her Footman._ COLONEL P―. Dear cousin, think it no reproach, (Thy virtue shines the more,) To take black John into the coach He rode behind before. _On stealing a Pound of Candles._ Light-fingered Catch, to keep his hand in ure, Stole anything; of this you may be sure, That he thinks all his own which once he handles, For practice-sake did steal a pound of candles; Was taken in the fact: Oh, foolish wight! To steal such things as needs must come to light. _On a very plain Lady, that patched much._ Your homely face, Flippanta, you disguise, With patches, numerous as Argus’ eyes; I own that patching’s requisite to you, For more we are pleased, if less your face we view; Yet I advise, if my advice you’d ask, Wear but one patch; but be that patch a mask. _The Dart._ Whene’er I look, I may descry A little face peep through that eye; Sure that’s the boy, who wisely chose His throne among such beams as those, Which, if his quiver chance to fall, May serve for darts to kill withal. _To L―, the Miser._ When thou art asked to sup abroad, Thou swear’st thou hast but newly dined; That eating late does over-load The stomach and the mind. Then thou wilt drink ’till every star Be swallowed by the rising sun; Such charms hath wine we pay not for, And mirth at others’ charge begun. Who shuns his club, yet flies to every treat, Does not a supper, but a reck’ning hate. _On Jealousy._ BY A LADY.