I dreamt (ah! what so frequent themes
As you and Venus of my dreams!)
That she, bright glory of the sky,
Heard from below her darling's cry:
Saw her cheeks pale, her bosom heave,
And heard a distant sound of "thieve!"
Not so you look when at the ball,
Envied you shine, outshining all.
Not so at church, when priest perplex'd,
Beholds you, and forgets the text.
The goddess frighten'd, to her throne Summon'd the little god her son, And him in passion thus bespoke; 'Where, with that cunning urchin's look, 'Where from thy colours hast thou stray'd? 'Unguarded left my darling maid? 'Left my lov'd citadel of beauty, With none but Sancho upon duty! Did I for this a num'rous band Of loves send under thy command! 'Bid thee still have her in thy sight, And guard her beauties day and night! 'Were not th' Hesperian gardens taken? 'The hundred eyes of Argus shaken? 'What dangers will not men despise, 'T'obtain this much superior prize?
And didst thou trust what Jove hath charm'd,
To a poor sentinel unarmed?
indeed the wretch had got, gun 'But neither powder, ball, nor shot. 'Come tell me, urchin, tell no lies; 'Where was you hid, in Vince's eyes?
'Did you fair Bennet's breast importune?
(I know you dearly love a fortune.) '
Poor Cupid now began to whine;
'Mamma, it was no fault of mine.
'I in a dimple lay perdue,
"That little guard-room chose by you.
'A hundred Loves (all arm'd) did grace
'The beauties of her neck and face;
Thence, by a sigh I dispossessed,
'Was blown to Harry Fielding's breast;
'Where I was forc'd all night to stay,
• Because I could not find my way.
'But did mamma know there what work
'I've made, how acted like a Turk;
'What pains, what torment he endures,
'Which no physician ever cures,
'She would forgive.' The goddess smil'd,
And gently chuck'd her wicked child,
Bid him go back, and take more care,
And give her service to the fair.
ON HER WISHING TO HAVE A LILLIPUTIAN TO PLAY WITH.
Is there a man who would not be,
My Celia, what is priz'd by thee?
A monkey beau, to please thy sight,
Would wish to be a monkey quite.
Or (couldst thou be delighted so)
Each man of sense would be a beau.
Courtiers would quit their faithless skill,
To be thy faithful dog Quadrille.
who does for freedom rage, Would sing confin'd within thy cage;
And W-lp-le, for a tender pat,
Would leave his place to be thy cat.
May I, to please my lovely dame,
Be five foot shorter than I am;
And, to be greater in her eyes,
Be sunk to Lilliputian size.
While on thy hand I skipp'd the dance,
How I'd despise the king of France!
That hand! which can bestow a store
Richer than the Peruvian ore,
Richer than India, or the sea
(That hand will give yourself away).
Upon your lap to lay me down,
Or hide in plaitings of your gown;
Or on your shoulder sitting high,
What monarch so enthron'd as I?
Now on the rosy bud I'd rest,
Which borrows sweetness from thy breast.
Then when my Celia walks abroad,
I'd be her pocket's little load:
Or sit astride, to frighten people,
Upon her hat's new-fashioned steeple.
These for the day; and for the night,
I'd be a careful, watchful sprite.
Upon her pillow sitting still,
I'd guard her from th' approach of ill.
Thus (for afraid she could not be
Of such a little thing as me)
While I survey her bosom rise,
Her lovely lips, her sleeping eyes,
While I survey, what to declare
Nor fancy can, nor words must dare,
Here would begin my former pain,
And wish to be myself again.
As wildest libertines would rate,
Compar'd with pleasure, an estate;
Or as his life a hero'd prize,
When honour claim'd the sacrifice ;
Their souls as strongest misers hold,
When in the balance weigh'd with gold;
Such, was thy happiness at stake,
My fortune, life, and soul, I'd make.
CAN there on earth, my Celia, be
A price I would not pay for thee?
Yes, one dear precious tear of thine
Should not be shed to make thee mine.
A VERY good fish, very good way of selling A very bad thing, with a little bad spelling, Make the name by the parson and godfather giv'n,
When a Christian was made of an angel from heav'n.
HAVING BLAMED MR. GAY FOR HIS SEVERITY ON HER
LET it not Celia's gentle heart perplex
That Gay severe hath satiriz'd her sex;
Had they, like her, a tenderness but known,
Back on himself each pointed dart had flown.
But blame thou last, in whose accomplish'd mind
The strongest satire on thy sex we find.
THAT Kate weds a fool what wonder can be,
Her husband has married a fool great as she.
MISS Molly lays down as a positive rule,
That no one should marry for love, but a fool:
Exceptions to rules even Lilly allows;
Moll has sure an example at home in her spouse.
Occasioned by a dispute whether the company should have fresh candles.
TAKE your candles away, let music be mute, My dancing, however, you shall not dispute; Jenny's eyes shall find light, and I'll find a flute.
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