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BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S
TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS.,
BY THE MOB IN THE MONTH OF JỤNE, 1780,
So then—the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Than ever Roman saw!
And MURRAY sighs o’er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,
The loss was his alone ;
The burning of his own.
ON THE SAME.
When wit and genius meet their doom
In all devouring flame,
They felt the rude alarm,
His sacred head from harm.
There Mem’ry, like the bee, that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
Had treasur'd up before.
The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The honey on his tongue.
LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;
Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
* It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found it's way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity.
Much controversy straight arose,
You laugh—'tis well—The tale applied
MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S
Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,
O share Maria’s grief! Her fav’rite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?)
. Assassin'd by a thief.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well-taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flagelet or flute.