In church, the prayer-book and the fan displayed, And the solemn curtesies, show the wily maid; At plays, the leering looks, and wanton airs, And nods, and smiles, are fondly meant for snares. Alas! vain charmer, you no lovers get; There you seem hypocrite, and here coquet. _On a picture of Mrs. Arabella Hunt, drawn playing on a lute, after her death._ Were there on earth another voice like thine, Another hand so blessed with skill divine, The late afflicted world some hopes might have, And harmony retrieve thee from the grave. _On a Bursar of a certain college in Oxford cutting down the Trees near the said college for his own use._ Indulgent nature to each creature shows A secret instinct to discern its foes: The goose, a silly bird, avoids the fox; Lambs fly from wolves, and sailors steer from rocks; The thief the gallows, as his fate foresees, And bears the like antipathy to trees. _On the death of Mrs. B―, who died soon after her marriage._ Hail, happy bride! for thou art truly bless’d, Three months of rapture crowned with endless rest. Merit like yours was heaven’s peculiar care, You loved,―yet tasted happiness sincere. To you the sweets of love were only shown; The sure succeeding bitter dregs unknown; You had not yet the fatal change deplored, The tender lover for the imperious lord; Nor felt the pains that jealous fondness brings, Nor wept the coldness from possession sprung: Above your sex distinguished in your fate, You trusted―yet experienced no deceit. Soft were your hours, and winged with pleasures flew, No vain repentance gave a sigh to you; And if superior bliss heaven can bestow, With fellow angels you enjoy it now. _The Emperor Adrian’s Death-bed Verses to his Soul imitated._ Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight the Lord knows whither? Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lie all neglected, all forgot; And pensive, wavering, melancholy, Thou dread’st and hopest thou know’st not what. _To Celia, with a Snuff-box, having a Looking-Glass in the Lid._ Let others Venus and the Graces place, Or Cupid, god of love, these toys to grace; Deign, charmer, but to cast those sparkling eyes On this fair mirror, lo! with glad surprise, A fairer form than Venus shall arise. Smile but my fair, and view ten thousand loves, Cheerful as light, and soft as cooing doves: Beauty and love with thee for ever stay, Soon as thou closest the lid both fly away. _To Oliver Cromwell._