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ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
Who left a pledge behind.
With manners wond'rous winning:
Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size ; She never slumber'd in her pew,
But when she shut her eyes.
By twenty beaux and more ;
When she has walk'd before.
Her hangers-on cut short all;
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
She had not dy'd to-day.
MR. LEE LEWES,
! Prompter, hold! a word before your non
[Takes off his mask:
twas but a dream.
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavilld at his image in the flood. « The deuce confound,” he cries, “ these drumstick
6 shanks, « They never have my gratitude nor thanks; « They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead!
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head. “ How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow! « My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now." Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. Hoicks! hark forward ! came thundering from be
[Taking a jump through the stage door.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O WOLFE, to thee a streaming flood of wo,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,
Struck blind by Lightning.
Rather in pity than in hate,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
A SONNET. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight; Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection!
Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
END OF VOL. I..