Occasion'd by a scurrilous Epigram in an Evening Paper upon the Death of the Right Honourable C HARLES T OWNSEND .

Such gross Depravity of Heart
Bespeaks the foulest Aim;
Then what must be his future State,
Who stabs a T OWNSEND'S Fame?

Upon seeing Mrs . Y EATES ( after Mrs . C IBBER'S Death ) in the reviv'd Tragedy of Heroic Love, for her own Benefit .

Cease, cease your unavailing Griefs,
Tho' C IBBER is no more,
Y EATES with resistless Charms revives,
And shines with equal Pow'r!

Upon the much-lamented Death of the Right Honourable C HARLES T OWNSEND , obit Friday, Sept . 4, 1767.

With gushing Eyes, and Heart-felt Grief,
Britannia plaintive cries,
Alas! where shall I find Relief,
When Worth like T OWNSEND'S dies?

Upon a Report in the public Papers that Lord C***** M was in great Danger at the Castle Inn, Marlbro', of being crush'd by the Ceiling of a Room giving Way while his Lordship was at Dinner there .

Alas! what Danger was the Public-Weal in
When C***** M was near crush'd by Marlbro's Ceiling?
This dire Event would distant Ages mourn,
And what had been the Fate of this own?
Our Crippl'd Patriot gone! What then remains?
Our Hands as well as Tongues would groan in Chains.

Upon seeing Mrs. YEATES in the Character of M ARGARET , in the Earl of Warwick .

To see, and to admire's the same; I swear
E'en C IBBER never rivall'd this our Fair;
Gods! with what noble, what vindictive Ire,
Each Feature speaking, and her Eyes all Fire;
With what maternal Emphasis she cries,
" I conquer still, there, there my Victim lies. "

Upon W ILKES'S writing Word from France of the Death of his Friend C HURCHILL there , L LOYD'S Imprisonment, and his own Exile: (A Paragraph versified.)

Alas! no more poor C HURCHILL lives to write!
Unhappy L LOYD exists in woeful Plight!
And I (curse to the Scandal of the Times)
Tho' I ne'er dealt in poignant Rhimes,
Am exil'd for remaining Life,
Depriv'd of Country-Seat, and Wife.

I can sigh but cannot think,
Or can think but cannot see.
A string left broken on my guitar bridge,
A trace of lipstick stains my concert fan.

No wet to thole, I shut each hole,
And wrought my heel-seat under;
My forepart's wide — round toe, and side,
And lin'd smooth to a wonder.
I've not been slack to be exact
Tho they're not cast at Carron;
So hope the boots your orders suits
To fit the Lord Chief B — — n .

In the palace at dusk the blinds of pearl are unfurled,
Fireflies flit around, then come to rest
Throughout the long night I sew thin silken garments
When will my thoughts of you ever come to an end?

The first time I set eyes on you,
I thought our hearts would be as one
I fed my thread into a broken loom
It would not make a bolt of cloth.