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REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ. 115

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Though my vows I can pour to my Mary Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your

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And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave at once thy realms of air
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for-them-
selves?

With shame I own I've felt thy sway,
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to truth was dear; 30

To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir, To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire, But bends not now before thy throne. Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears On all occasions swiftly flow, Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, With fancied flames and phrensy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name, Apostate from your gentle train? An infant bard at least may claim From you a sympathetic strain. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

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The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DE-
SCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY
DRAWN

'But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?
ANSTEY, New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend

The verse which blends the censor with the

friend.

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