AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

G

OOD 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;
She freely lent to all the poor,
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,
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.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her,
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more, She had not died to-day.

MADRIGAL.

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.

J

66

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

OHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers

To tell them the reason why asses had ears:

An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, "Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack ;

He led such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier: growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

S

URE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,

That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

K

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.** *.

O, were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,

Heroes themselves had fallen behind,
Whene'er he went before.

How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep;

Even pitying hills would drop a tear,
If hills could learn to weep.

His bounty in exalted strain

Each bard might well display;
Since none implored relief in vain
That went relieved away.

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid ;

He still shall live, shall live as long
As ever dead man did.