ON A CERTAIN LORD'S PASSION FOR A SINGER .

N ERINA'S angel voice delights;
Nerina's devil-face affrights;
How whimsical her Strephon's fate,
Condemn'd at once to like and hate!
But be she cruel, be she kind,
Love! strike her dumb, or make him blind.

Here lies kind Tom, thrust out of door,
Nor high nor low, nor rich nor poor;
He left the world with heavy cheer,
And never knew what he made here.

Her Prudence, Wit and Memory being told,
Death seiz'd her streight; mistook her to be old.
A sheet of Bacon 's catch'd at more, we know,
Than all sad Fox , long Holinshead or Stow .
She was but Eight; yet judgment had such store,
Upon a just Compute she dy'd Threescore.
Ladies, take heed how to be wise you try,
For 'tis resolv'd, who will be wise must dye.

SHE DIED AT THE AGE OF SIX YEARS .

Nature in this small volume was about
To perfect what in woman was left out;
Yet fearful lest a piece so well begun
Might want preservatives, when she had done,
Ere she could finish what she undertook,
Threw dust upon it, and shut up the book.

Here wither'd lies a flower, which blown,
Was cropp'd as soon as it was known;
The loss was great, and the offence,
Since one unworthy took it hence.

UPON WADING THROUGH A LATE SOMNIFEROUS " SUPPLEMENTAL
APOLOGY, " &C.

Poor George! in ev'ry page thy readers trace
The heavy influence of thy " Leaden Mace:
They all exclaim, when once thy book is read —
" His ink is Opium , and his pen is lead! "

TO CAPTAIN THOMAS BYAM MARTIN, UPON HIS TAKING THE FRENCH
FRIGATE L'IMMORTALITE .

The Thames, by you to England's king restor'd,
Entwin'd a laurel round your maiden sword;
But this last trophy, won upon the sea,
Makes you partake of Immortality!

WHO REFUSED A STATUE THE PUBLIC WISHED TO RAISE TO HIS HONOUR, DURING HIS LIFE .

When royal statues moulder into dust,
And broken lies the hero's trophied bust;
If yet humanity can heave a sigh,
When mis'ry lifts the pleading, tearful eye;
Howard thy name shall live in ev'ry clime,
And give defiance to the lapse of time!

UPON HER BIRTH DAY, WITH A GOLDEN ANCHOR .

May my dear girl, on ev'ry birth-day, find
Content the golden anchor of her mind!
Still with her years may happiness increase,
And her heart be the sanctu'ry of peace!
Pure be her joys, exempt from all alloy,
Like the fine metal of this little toy.

W hiles G REENHAM writeth of the Sabboths rest,
His soule inioyes that which his pen exprest:
His worke inioyes not what it selfe doth say,
For it shall neuer finde one resting day.
A thousand hands shall tosse each page and line,
Which shall be scanned by a thousand eyne.
That Sabboths rest, or this Sabboths vnrest,
Hard is to say whether is the happiest.