But ftill how good must be that fair one's mind,
Who thus in folitude can pleasure find!

The mufe her company, good-fense her guide,
Refiftless charms her pow'r, but not her pride:
Who thus forfakes the town, the park, and play,
In filent fhades to pafs her hours away;
Who better likes to breathe fresh country air,
Than ride imprison'd in a velvet chair;

And makes the warbling nightingale her choice,
Before the thrills of FARINELLI's voice;

Prefers her books, and conscience void of ill,
To conforts, balls, affemblies, and quadrille :
Sweet bow'rs more pleas'd than gilded chariots fees,
For groves the playhouse quits, and beaus for trees.
Bleft is the man, whom heav'n fhall grant one hour
With fuch a lovely nymph, in such a lovely bow'r !

To

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WROTE IN A VERY FINE

HAND.

W

HILST well-wrote lines our wond'ring eyes command,

The beauteous work of CHLOE's artful hand,

Throughout the finish'd piece we see display'd
Th' exacteft image of the lovely maid;
Such is her wit, and fuch her form divine,

This pure, as flows the style thro' ev'ry line,
That like each letter, exquifitely fine.

See with what art the fable currents stain
In wand'ring mazes all the milk-white plain!
Thus o'er the meadows wrap'd in filver snow
Unfrozen brooks in dark meanders flow;
Thus jetty curls in fhining ringlets deck

The ivory plain of lovely CHLOE's neck:
See, like fome virgin, whose unmeaning charms
Receive new luftre from a lover's arms,

The yielding paper's pure, but vacant breast,
By her fair hand and flowing pen imprest,

5

}

At

At ev'ry touch more animated grows,
And with new life and new ideas glows,
Fresh beauties from the kind defiler gains,
And shines each moment brighter from its stains.
Let mighty Love no longer boaft his darts,
That strike unerring, aim'd at mortal hearts;
CHLOE, your quill can equal wonders do,
Wound full as fure, and at a distance too:
Arm'd with your feather'd weapons in your hands,
From pole to pole you fend your great commands,
To distant climes in vain the lover flies,

Your pen o'ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes;
So thofe, who from the fword in battle run

But perish victims to the diftant

gun.

Beauty's a fhort-liv'd blaze, a fading flow'r, But these are charms no ages can devour; These far fuperior to the brighteft face,

Triumph alike o'er time as well as space.

When that fair form, which thousands now adore,
By years decay'd, shall tyrannize no more,

These lovely lines fhall future ages view,

And eyes unborn, like ours, be charm'd by you.

How

How oft do I admire with fond delight

The curious piece, and wifh like you to write!
Alas, vain hope! that might as well aspire
To copy PAULO's ftroke, or TITIAN's fire:
Ev'n now your fplendid lines before me lie,
And I in vain to imitate them try ;
Believe me, fair, I'm practifing this art,

To fteal your hand, in hopes to fteal

your

heart.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY*,

PRESENTED WITH A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

HE tuneful throng was ever beauty's care,

THE

And verfe a tribute facred to the fair ;

Hence in each age the lovelieft nymph has been,

By undifputed right, the mufes queen;

Her fmiles have all poetic bofoms fir'd,

And patronis'd the verse themselves inspir'd:

LESBIA

*Lady Margaret Cavendish Harley was the only daughter and heiress of Edward Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, by his wife the Lady Henrietta Cavendish, fole daughter and heiress of John Holles Duke of Newcastle. She married William the fecond Duke of Portland July 11, 1734, who died on the 1ft of May, 1762; her Grace surviving him, departed this life at her feat at Bulftrode, on Monday the 18th of June 1785 leaving behind her that famous museum, replete with works in the fine arts and a most extenfive collection of natural history, which, with no less industry than judgment, and at an expence which could be only fupported by her princely fortune, fhe had been the greatest part of her life collecting; but this collection,

however