Apollo, crown'd with Bays, gives laws
To the Parnassian Empyrean;

And every schoolboy knows the cause,

Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon.

Daphne, like many another fair,

To whom connubial ties are horrid, Fled from his arms, but left a rare

Memento sprouting on his forehead.

For Bays did ancient bards compete,
Gather'd on Pindus or Parnassus,

They by the leaf were paid, not sheet,

And that's the reason they surpass us.

One wreath thus twines the heads about,

Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces,

And those who others' brains knock'd out,

'Cause they themselves were royal dunces.

Men fight in these degenerate days,

For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets;

And bards who borrow fire from bays,
Must have them in the grate for billets.

Laureats we have (for cash and sack)

Of all calibres and diameters,

But 'stead of poetry, alack!

They give us lachrymose Hexameters.

And that illustrious leaf for which

Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster'd,

Is now boil'd down to give a rich

And dainty flavour to our custard!

TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND.

BEAUTIES!-(for, dress'd with so much taste, All may with such a term be graced,)— Attend the friendly stanza,

Which deprecates the threaten'd change

Of English modes for fashions strange,

And French extravaganza.

What! when her sons renown have won

In arts and arms, and proudly shone
A pattern to the nations,

Shall England's recreant daughters kneel

At Gallic shrines, and stoop to steal

Fantastic innovations?

Domestic-simple-chaste-sedate,——

Your fashions now assimilate

Your virtues and your duties:

With all the dignity of Rome,

The Grecian Graces find a home

In England's classic Beauties.

When we behold so fit a shrine,

We deem its inmate all divine,

And thoughts licentious bridle;

But if the case be tasteless, rude,
Grotesque, and glaring-we conclude

It holds some worthless idol.

Let Gallia's nymphs of ardent mind,

To every wild extreme inclined,

In folly be consistent;

Their failings let their modes express,

From simpleness of soul and dress,

For ever equi-distant.

True to your staid and even port,

Let mad extremes of every sort

With steady scorn be treated;

Nor by art's modish follies mar

The sweetest, loveliest work by far

That nature has completed:

For oh! if in the world's wide round

One peerless object may be found,

A something more than human;

The faultless paragon confess'd

May in one line be all express'd,

A WELL-DRESS'D ENGLISH WOMAN.