Adieu! Be this my Jenny's boast, E'en from the friends who lov'd her most She pilfer'd all she could: As Bess was gentle and resign'd; Domestic thus when least at home, Her kindred heart, where'er she roam, Shall tell us whence she came ; And Phoebus, as her just reward, To celebrate her fame. TO THE SAME. My dear Miss Jenny, once before Of mighty serious matter, To please your ladyship at Hayes; So pray with patient ear attend In idleness and haste; I have no time to bite my thumb To please a lady's taste. Plague on this stanza,-I'd as soon As rack my brains or vex my noddle Pack up my wit in form as neat And check my flying gray-goose feather I cannot say how mighty dull It is to scribble thus by rule; When one must weigh the words before, As just so many and no more Can find a lodging in this stanza, Whate'er the poet's wit or fancy. And where is here? Why in this town. As good as Paddy's, when his rap "Whose that, that knocks so lustily? And by the great St. Patrick's knee, And who are you? Quoth Paddy, “me.” I'll tell at least the whereabouts: (Witness the music of my line,) And dearer to the tuneful Maids Than Cyrrha's brow or Tempe's glades. Of many a bard Achaia mourns; And mindful of her better days, Those towers with weeping eye surveys, Where Plato taught, or Cimon trod, Crushed by a tyrant's iron rod;)— Here, Isis' hallow'd banks along, Thalia thrills her sprightly song, While Nymphs and Graces sporting round, Print with light feet the classic ground. But what is this to you, my dear? Who know perhaps no more of her, D Than I of hemming, knitting, darning, Yet would you know who, what, and where, And all the other names I prate on, Ask the good Doctor of Low Leyton. Well, now to business, as I swore To do some twenty lines before; To love that little word called me:) Writing to you in Worcester town; Two nymphs divine the house supply, May you be never near so old! But still as long as you're alive, A CHARADE, Addressed to a Party of Young Ladies. FOR ever arm'd my first you see, To hurl the quiv'ring dart; My second all can never be, By nature or by art. My whole (nay frown not at my theme, 'Tis hardly worth your care,) Is what a thousand wish to seem, And all who hear me are. |