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Lest the rude blast should
the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather, And all her fears were hush'd together : And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, Tis over,
and the brood is safe; (For ravens, though as birds of omen They teach both conj'rers and old women, To tell us what is to befall, Can't prophesy themselves at all.) The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge, And destin'd all the treasure there A gift to his expecting fair, Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away.
"Tis Providence alorie secures
Fate steals along with silent tread,
The lapse of time and rivers is the same,
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT.
TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON.
MARIA! I have ev'ry good
For thee wish'd many a time,
But never yet in rhime.
To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour then not yet possess'd
Can I for thee require,
To thy whole heart's desire?
None here is happy but in part;
Full bliss is bliss divine:
And doubtless one in thine,
That wish on some fair future day,
Which Fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill’d.
ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
PATRON of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning,
And little or no meaning.
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
A poet's drop of ink?