So soft his pipe, so sweet his air:
None heard, but felt the power of love,
’Mong all the nymphs assembl’d there.
Not Philomel’s delightful strain
Could such extatic joys impart,
As did thy notes, O darling swain!
Which well can cheer the anxious heart.
His count’nance as Aurora bright,
His smiles gave joy to all around;
In virtue, wit, and all that’s right,
Alonzo’s equal ne’er was found.
To Anna’s banks, alas! he’s gone;
To Eccles fam’d for maidens fair;
And, to augment my grievous moan,
I dread some pow’rful rival there.
ARMEDA.
O Sylvia, all your fears are vain;
I’ve seen the nymphs display their art,
To captivate your charming swain;
But none can there engage his heart.
Insensible he seems to grow;
Defies the little armed boy:
From his lov’d horse, a fatal throw
Does more his anxious thoughts employ.
Than Cupid’s arrows more severe,
The wounds he got his cares now prove:
Can Sylvia think it strange to hear
Alonzo quite forgets to love?
SYLVIA.
Forgets to love! that must not be;
Sure Sylvia would be wretched then.
Alonzo, when depriv’d of thee,
Rough winter still deforms the plain.
O hasten and dispel my fears!
The birds with thee more sweetly sing.
O crown with joy revolving years!
Thy presence gives perpetual spring.
THE
_CAPTIVATED SOLDIER_.
Ye swains unacquainted with love,
Attend to my pitiful lay:
My pipe shall resound through the grove,
And my woes in sad accents display.
Long time I with freedom did range;
With indiff’rence I gaz’d on the fair:
Now my heart, how affecting the change!
Matilda has caught in the snare.
Ah me! how unlucky the day,
When thoughtless I hasten’d to view?
A wedding was coming this way,
Nor dream’d I of what did ensue.
Matilda appear’d in her charms;
Her cheeks with soft blushes did glow:
My bosom was fill’d with alarms,
Nor knew I who wounded me so.
Her shape it is handsome; her air
Excels all the nymphs of the town:
Her eyes may with diamonds compare;
Her locks of the loveliest brown.
She swift from my presence did fly.
I call’d, but she answer’d me not:
She fear’d that some danger might be
Sly lurking beneath the red coat.
If red will affrighten my dear,
I’ll dress in the good russet grey,
Abandon my sword and my spear,
And cast my bright armour away.
No more I’ll attend to the drum;
But take up my shuttle and weave:
From that sure no danger can come,
Such clowns have no art to deceive.
No razor shall come on my face,
Nor powder be seen on my hair:
I’ll walk at no regular pace;
In brogues to my love I’ll repair.
O then, will she hear my soft tale?
O then, will Matilda prove kind?
If rustics with her can prevail,
The rustic in me she shall find.
ON READING
LADY MARY MONTAGUE and Mrs. ROWE’S
_LETTERS_.
As Venus by night, so Montague bright
Long in the gay circle did shine:
She tun’d well the lyre, mankind did admire;
They prais’d, and they call’d her divine.
This pride of the times, in far distant climes,
Stood high in the temple of Fame:
Britannia’s shore, then ceas’d to adore,
A greater the tribute did claim.
To sue for the prize, fam’d Rowe did arise,
More bright than Apollo was she:
Superior rays obtain’d now the bays,
And Montague bended the knee.
O excellent Rowe, much Britain does owe
To what you’ve ingen’ously penn’d:
Of virtue and wit, the model you’ve hit;
Who reads must you ever commend.
Would ladies pursue, the paths trod by you,
And jointly to learning aspire,
The men soon would yield unto them the field,
And critics in silence admire.
UPON
_A YOUNG LADY’S_
BREAKING A LOOKING-GLASS.
As round the room, with tentless speed,
Young Delia tripp’d it finely,
A looking-glass, so Fate decreed,
She broke, but not design’dly.
A looking-glass of ancient date,
Its fall the belles lamented;
But all their sorrow prov’d too late,
Its ruin none prevented.
When Anne the British sceptre sway’d,
’Twas plac’d in firm position;
Nor did a forward chamber-maid
E’er alter its condition.
No mirror better could descry
Th’ embrio of a pimple;
The rheum on a neglected eye;
The hoary hair or wrinkle.
Long time it did the chimney grace,
So awkward now and empty;
Its with a vengeance chang’d its place,
And broke in pieces twenty.
O Delia! mourn thy direful fate,
A thousand ills portending!
Black omens now thy stars await,
’Gainst which there’s no defending.
Poor Delia now, bedew’d with tears
And piti’d by acquaintance,
Resolv’d to spend full fifteen years,
In doleful, deep repentance.
Do tears these lovely cheeks distain,
By thousand charms surrounded!
These eyes from weeping do refrain;
Their glance have many wounded.
T’ adorn thy more accomplish’d mind,
Each radient grace conspires:
Hence dread thou not their dark design,
Though rage each demon fires.
Let hope diffuse a gentle ray,
These magic spells defying:
Let prudence Delia’s footsteps sway,
On virtue still relying.
But know the rake’s alluring smile,
The heedless fair bewitches:
Let no fond youth your heart beguile,
By soft enticing speeches.
And if good counsel aught avail,
Attend Diana’s classes:
For mind our sex is ever frail,
And brittle as our glasses.
AN
ACROSTIC
UPON A
YOUNG WOMAN,
_WRITTEN BY HER LOVER_.
Hail sweetest charmer of the rural plain,
Accept the tribute of a humble swain;
Nor frown, tho’ he presumpt’ous would essay;
No muse your matchless beauties can display.
All that is feign’d of the fair Cyprian queen,
Here in this lovely damsel may be seen.
In her fair form is ev’ry grace combin’d;
Virtue and modesty adorn her mind.
If Milton’s eloquence did grace my lays,
Sure it would fail, and speak but half her praise.
O Cupid fix an arrow in her breast!
No more I’d wish, were I of her possess’d.
AN
_EXTEMPORARY_
ACROSTIC.
My Muse, once more, thy aid I humbly claim;
Refuse not now to grace my rustic lays.
Johnston or Pope might well befit the theme
Or Grecian bards, who ever merit praise.
How dares my humble hand assume so high?
No common character inspires my song,
His growing fame long since has reach’d the sky:
All I can say but does his virtues wrong;
Let then my blund’ring pen in silence rest;
Lo, silent admiration paints them best.
AN
EPISTLE
TO
_Mr. ROBERT BURNS_.
Fairfa’ the honest rustic swain,
The pride o’ a’ our Scottish plain;
Thou gi’es us joy to hear thy strain,
And notes sae sweet;
Old Ramsay’s shade, reviv’d again,
In thee we greet.
Lov’d Thallia, that delightful muse,
Seem’d long shut up as a recluse:
To all she did her aid refuse,
Since Allan’s day,
Till Burns arose, then did she choose
To grace his lay.
To hear thy song, all ranks desire;
Sae well thou strik’st the dormant lyre.
Apollo, wi’ poetic fire,
Thy breast did warm,
An’ critics silently admire
Thy art to charm.
Cæsar an’ Luath weel can speak;
’Tis pity e’er their gabs should steek:
They into human nature keek,
An’ knots unravel;
To hear their lectures ance a week,
Ten miles I’d travel.
Thy dedication to G---- H----,
In unco bonny, hamespun speech,
Wi’ winsome glee the heart can teach
A better lesson,
Than servile bards wha fawn an’ fleech,
Like beggar’s messin.
When slighted love becomes thy theme,
An’ woman’s faithless vows you blame,
With so much pathos you exclaim,
In your Lament,
But glanc’d by the most frigid dame,
She wad relent.
The daisy too, you sing wi’ skill;
An’ weel ye praise the whisky gill.
In vain I blunt my feckless quill,
Your fame to raise,
While echo sounds, frae ilka hill,
To Burns’s praise.
Did Addison or Pope but hear,
Or Sam, that critic most severe,
A plough-boy sing, wi’ throat sae clear,
They, in a rage,
Their works wad a’ in pieces tear
An’ curse your page.
If I should strain my rupy throat,
To raise thy praise wi’ swelling note,
My rude, unpolish’d strokes wad blot
Thy brilliant shine,
An’ ev’ry passage I would quote
Seem less sublime.
The task I’ll drop; wi’ heart sincere
To heav’n present a humble prayer,
That a’ the blessings mortals share
May be, by turns,
Dispens’d with an indulgent care
To Robert Burns.
TO
_MY AUNTY_.
My ever dear an’ worthy aunty,
Wha ne’er o’ wit nor lear was vaunty;
Yet often could, like honest grandam,
Unravel dreams; an’ whiles, at random,
Did truth in mystic terms declare,
Which made us aft wi’ wonder stare.
Last night, when Morpheus softly hurl’d
His silken sceptre o’er the world,
Some anxious cares within my breast
Were silently consign’d to rest;
Yet did in sleep their pow’r retain,
As shews the visions of my brain.
My works I thought appear’d in print,
And were to diff’rent corners sent,
Whare patrons kind, but scant o’ skill,
Had sign’d my superscription bill.
Voratious critics by the way,
Like eagles watching for their prey,
Soon caught the verse wi’ aspect sour,
An’ did ilk feeble thought devour;
Nor did its humble, helpless state,
One fraction of their rage abate.
Tom Touchy, one of high pretence
To taste an’ learning, wit an’ sense,
Was at the board the foremost man,
Its imperfections a’ to scan.
Soon as the line he seem’d to doubt,
The meaner critics scratch’d it out;
Still to be nam’d on Touchy’s side,
Was baith their int’rest and their pride.
Will Hasty, in an unco rage,
Revis’d the volume page by page;
But aft was deem’d a stupid ass,
For cens’ring what alone might pass.
Jack Tim’rous gladly would have spoke,
But quiv’ring lips his sentence broke;
So much he fear’d a brother’s scorn,
The whole escap’d his claws untorn.
James Easy calm’d my throbbing heart,
An’ whisp’ring told each man apart,
That he the volume much esteem’d;
Its little faults he nothing deem’d:
An’ if his vote they would receive,
It might through countless ages live.
While I poor James’s speech admir’d,
Tom Touchy at the sound was fir’d:
And ah! it griev’d me much to find,
He prov’d him senseless, deaf, and blind:
Then quick as thought, ere I could tell him,
Ilk critics club was up to fell him;
An’ as he, helpless, met the stroke,
I, starting, trembl’d, syne awoke.
Now aunty, see this sad narration,
Which fills my breast wi’ fair vexation;
An’ if you can some comfort gie me,
Make nae delay, but send it to me:
For I’m commanded by Apollo,
Your sage advice in this to follow.
ON
_HALLOWEEN_.
Some folk in courts for pleasure sue,
An’ some ransack the theatre:
The airy nymph is won by few;
She’s of so coy a nature.
She shuns the great bedaub’d with lace,
Intent on rural jokin
An’ spite o’ breeding, deigns to grace
A merry Airshire rockin,
Sometimes at night.
At Halloween, when fairy sprites
Perform their mystic gambols,
When ilka witch her neebour greets,
On their nocturnal rambles;
When elves at midnight-hour are seen,
Near hollow caverns sportin,
Then lads an’ lasses aft convene,
In hopes to ken their fortune,
By freets that night.
At Jennet Reid’s not long ago,
Was held an annual meeting,
Of lasses fair an’ fine also,
With charms the most inviting:
Though it was wat, an’ wondrous mirk,
It stopp’d nae kind intention;
Some sprightly youths, frae Loudoun-kirk,
Did haste to the convention,
Wi’ glee that night.
The nuts upon a clean hearthstane
Were plac’d by ane anither,
An’ some gat lads, an’ some gat nane,
Just as they bleez’d the gither.
Some sullen cooffs refuse to burn;
Bad luck can ne’er be mended;
But or they a’ had got a turn,
The pokefu’ nits was ended
Owre soon that night.
A candle on a stick was hung,
An’ ti’d up to the kipple:
Ilk lad an’ lass, baith auld an’ young,
Did try to catch the apple;
Which aft, in spite o’ a’ their care,
Their furious jaws escaped;
They touch’d it ay, but did nae mair,
Though greedily they gaped,
Fu’ wide that night.
The dishes then, by joint advice,
Were plac’d upon the floor;
Some stammer’d on the toom ane thrice,
In that unlucky hour.
Poor Mall maun to the garret go,
Nae rays o’ comfort meeting;
Because sae aft she’s answer’d no,
She’ll spend her days in greeting,
An’ ilka night.
Poor James sat trembling for his fate;
He lang had dree’d the worst o’t;
Though they had tugg’d and rugg’d till yet,
To touch the dish he durst not.
The empty bowl, before his eyes,
Replete with ills appeared;
No man nor maid could make him rise,
The consequence he feared
Sae much that night.
Wi’ heartsome glee the minutes past,
Each act to mirth conspired:
The cushion dance perform’d at last,
Was most of all admired.
From Janet’s bed a bolster came,
Nor lad nor lass was missing;
But ilka ane wha caught the same,
Was pleas’d wi’ routh o’ kissing,
Fu’ sweet that night.
Soon as they heard the forward clock
Proclaim ’twas nine, they started,
An’ ilka lass took up her rock;
Reluctantly they parted,
In hopes to meet some other time,
Exempt from false aspersion;
Nor will they count it any crime,
To hae sic like diversion
Some future night.
ON SEEING
_Mr. ---- BAKING CAKES_.
As Rab, who ever frugal was,
Some oat-meal cakes was baking,
In came a crazy scribbling lass,
Which set his heart a-quaking.
“I fear,” says he, “she’ll verses write,
An’ to her neebors show it:
But troth I need na care a doit,
Though a’ the country knew it.
My cakes are good, none can object;
The maids will ca’ me thrifty;
To save a sixpence on the peck
Is just an honest shifty.
They’re fair an’ thin, an’ crump, ’tis true;
You’ll own sae when you see them;
But, what is better than the view,
Put out your han’ an’ pree them.”
He spoke, an’ han’d the cakes about,
Whilk ev’ry eater prized;
Until the basket was run out,
They did as he advised.
An’ ilka ane that got a share,
Said that they were fu’ dainty;
While Rab cri’d eat, an’ dinna spare;
For I hae cakes in plenty.
And i’ the corner stan’s a cheese,
A glass an’ bottle by me;
Baith ale and porter, when I please,
To treat the lasses slily.
Some ca’ me wild an’ roving youth;
But sure they are mistaken:
The maid wha gets me, of a truth,
Her bread will ay be baken.
A
POEM
ON
_CONTENTMENT_.
INSCRIBED TO JANET NICOL, A POOR OLD WANDERING
WOMAN, WHO LIVES BY THE WALL
AT LOUDOUN AND USED SOMETIMES TO
BE VISITED BY THE COUNTESS.
O Janet, by your kind permission,
My muse, in tatter’d low condition,
Would fain attempt, if you’ll allow,
To dedicate a song to you.
Possess’d of few attractive pow’rs,
Her case does much resemble yours;
So lest none else should deign to hear,
She humbly supplicates your ear.
Imprimis, she should compliment ye;
A Venus or Diana paint ye;
Count o’er your virtues by the hunder,
And own they’re more than she can number.
This she might do; but then ’twould grieve her,
To find no mortal did believe her.
She calls you patroness and friend,
And begs that blessings may attend
Upon you in your humble cot,
And keep your ’scutcheon free frae blot.
May sweet contentment, hard to find,
With radient lustre light your mind;
While numbers of your sister train
Must for the treasure pant in vain.
Bright Celia, with her conquering eyes,
Attempts to win the doubtful prize:
She darts a glance, ah! cruel maid,
Philander drops! a strapping blade.
The youth as frantic now behaves;
Of love and flames, and darts he raves.
Not Esculapius’ sons can cure,
Nor ease the pangs he must endure.
At last the charmer gives consent;
Then Hymen does them both torment,
With nameless ills unknown before,
And ev’ry month augments the score.
May stars propitious guard your life
From all the mis’ries of a wife:
Poor Delia’s sighs and tears next prove
The pains of ill requited love.
She danc’d, had wit, was wondrous fair,
And seem’d Alonzo’s heart to snare.
True love and constancy he vow’d;
But this by all must be allow’d,
That young men’s tongues do not impart
The real language of their heart.
He wed another, sad to tell!
And bad the mournful maid farewel.
O Janet, may you never know
The pangs that lovers undergo.
Cordelia too, with look demure,
Contentment wishes to ensure.
She flattering Cupid wont believe:
She knows that Hymen can deceive;
But fondly hopes in verse to shine,
Assisted by the tuneful Nine;
To call their treasures all her own,
E’en in despite of fortune’s frown.
But weak, alas! is her pretence;
Her song proves destitute of sense.
Each cavilling critic does her vex,
And ev’ry censure sore perplex.
O may you never feel the pain,
We heedless scribbling fools sustain.
A thousand more from various views,
The gliding meteor swift pursues.
The Patriot toils, in pensive mood,
For honour and Britannia’s good.
The Courtier deems his Sov’reign’s smile
Would all his anxious cares beguile.
O Janet, shun the coxing tribe,
Who barter virtue for a bribe.
The Coxcomb’s care we well can guess;
He thinks the charm consists in dress,
Pomatum, powder, linens white,
Wash-balls, perfumes, and mirrors bright.
The Miser hopes his joys to hold,
Fast lock’d within his bags of gold:
Thieves, moth and rust, corrupt his rest;
May all his sorrows be your jest.
The plodding sage long years has spent
In searching for the gem content,
Which often does, I know not why,
In heaps of rustic rubbish lie.
And may my honest friend just now,
Without much quest be found by you;
May your old shoes, your staff and plaidy,
Be always for the journey ready:
And blithly may ilk neighbour greet you;
May cakes, and scones, and kibbocks meet you;
And may they weel ilk pocket cram,
And in your bottle slip a dram.
May your wee glass, your pipe and specks,
Be ay preserv’d frae doleful wrecks.
May your wee house, baith snug and warm,
Be safe frae ev’ry rude alarm
Of wandering lovers, who’d essay
To make soft innocence their prey:
Or ruffians, cast in rougher mould,
Whose sordid bosoms beat for gold.
Content grows joy, in meeting there }
The little, lovely, blooming fair, }
Who makes thy cot and thee her care; }
Whose gentle, gen’rous, noble mind,
Tho’ great and rich, can here prove kind;
Whose footsteps mark her path with peace,
Whose smile bids ev’ry sorrow cease;
For age and want, and wo provides
And over misery presides.
Her father’s worth, and mother’s charms
Esteem and fond affection warms,
While kind D--f--s, with rapture spies,
The sighing breast and swimming eyes;
Whose rays have found in James and thee,
The melting charm of misery.
That charm much more the cherub moves,
Than did his gift of cooing doves;
Whose hearts, less tender than her own,
Breathe forth their ever pleasing moan.
Sweet innocence, in her we find;
Bright truth illuminates her mind:
Each action says, for her to give
It is more joy than to receive.
Let James and you for Loudoun pray,
Whose charms have lur’d me from my lay.
Janet farewel, you’ve lint and tow,
O keep your rock ay frae the low;
Tho’ turmoils torture land and sea,
Content may smoke a pipe with thee.
_ALCANZAR._
When first Alcanzar to the town did come,
The people all believ’d that he was dumb:
In troops, with hasty steps, to him they went;
To get their fate presag’d was their intent.
The man well vers’d was in the mystic art,
And quick as thought could wondrous things impart.
Whoever were with anxious cares oppress’d,
Or on account of absent friends distress’d,
Unto Alcanzar swiftly did repair,
Each of his purse did amply make him share.
It matters not how great the distance be,
A ship is rear’d, he wafts him o’er the sea:
Tho’ in distress, them frees from ev’ry pain;
Dead or alive they now must cross the main:
Bedaub’d with lace, of gold they’ve got great store,
And swift he lands them on Britannia’s shore.
The nymphs and swains do next his aid demand;
He ties them all in Hymen’s silken band:
He does young Strephon with lov’d Delia bless,
Tho’ wont ere while to shun his fond address.
Sly Sanders too, who loves and woos for gold,
Sees Susan’s charms down on the table told:
Cows, calves and horses, plac’d before his sight,
A widow rich will well his love requite.
Poor Celia next, who, for some fickle swain,
Spends days in sorrow, and whole nights in pain:
It was his absence caus’d the maid to mourn,
But fam’d Alcanzar made him soon return.
His antic gestures did the fair one cheer,
And home she went, releas’d from every fear.
Old Elspa now comes trembling for her fate;
She would be wed, but fears it is too late:
Her locks, alas! are silver’d o’er with grey;
Yet to Alcanzar swift she takes her way.
She gave a sixpence; Ladies mark the rest,
She’s with a husband and five children blest.
Here maids of fifty, widows of fourscore,
May all get marri’d for a penny more.
But is the man like as his merit priz’d?
Ah no! he is by empty fools despis’d.
A crafty youth, Will Watson was his name,
Did strive to ruin great Alcanzar’s fame.
He dress’d himself all in a maid’s array,
Gown, stays and petticoat, extremely gay;
A muslin head-dress, with a large toopee;
Few of our Ladies look’d so fine as he.
Up street he walk’d with a majestic air,
And to Alcanzar’s lodgings did repair.
First gave a penny, then he shew’d his hand,
And did with down cast eyes dejected stand:
But who can tell the sequel without tears?
Alcanzar’s chalk too soon a cradle rears.
Who wont bewail this maid’s sad destiny?
She pregnant proves, her lover gone to sea.
Now all around upon the youth did gaze,
Such dismal signs had fill’d them with amaze.
Will gave a penny more; the sage did bring
The lover home, and wed them with a ring.
Eight children too, he plac’d before their sight
Will seem’d well pleas’d, and bade them all good night.
This might have pass’d, had he the fact conceal’d;
But O ’twas cruel! Willy all reveal’d.
He thought indeed, but all his thoughts were vain,
The fam’d Alcanzar’s character to stain.
For one spoil’d dish who would a meal despise!
Or for one small mistake condemn the wise?
FROM
_ALONZO TO DELIA_.
To you my fair, the empress of my heart,
I’m urg’d to vent my pure, untainted flame;
Tho’ language faintly can my thoughts impart,
My swelling sighs, your kind attention claim.
See Venus self outrival’d by your charms:
Vain my attempt thy virtues to portray
O come my darling hasten to my arms
Within my bosom still you bear the sway.
Life without thee no pleasure can bestow;
O might my suit thy tender pity move!
No muse can paint the ills I undergo;
And nought can cure them but my Delia’s love.
No bold ambitions views inspire my breast:
And what is honour but an empty name?
While Delia scorns, I never can be blest,
Though sounding heralds did my praise proclaim.
Know, lovely charmer, that our ancient sire
Did languish, tho’ in Eden’s fragrant bow’rs;
Till the first nymph bade love his breast inspire,
And by her presence cheer’d the ling’ring hours.
But Adam’s love could never equal mine,
Nor did bright Eve such radient beauty share.
O come, my darling, heart and hand resign,
And ev’ry muse shall hail the happy pair.
FROM
_DELIA TO ALONZO_.
When Adam was in spacious Eden plac’d,
Where rural sweets luxuriant did abound,
All that could charm the eye or please the taste,
In this blest scene of happiness was found.
O’er wide creation, he an empire sway’d:
The creatures all with whom the world was stor’d,
His sov’reign mandates with delight obey’d,
And own’d him as their universal lord.
What would he more, to render bless complete?
You say he lack’d the sweets of social life,
Until fair Eve, with charms divinely sweet,
Became his friend, his partner, and his wife
But think, fond youth, how transient was the bliss.
Scarce had he felt the joys of mutual love,
Scarce had he once receiv’d th’ ambrosial kiss,
When ah! his darling did his ruin prove!
Did she, who was adorn’d with ev’ry grace,
Prove fatal to the father of mankind?
Who of her daughters, a degen’rate race,
Can boast more art the tranquil hours to bind?
To sue for better, sir, would be in vain:
None ever yet did mother Eve excel.
Be warn’d by Adam; shun the glitt’ring train,
Lest some fond nymph your pleasures all expel.
A single life we find replete with joys.
The matrimonial chain I ever dread.
A state of celibacy is my choice;
Therefore Alonzo never can succeed.
FROM
_DELIA TO ALONZO_.
WHO HAD SENT HER A SLIGHTING EPISTLE.
Sir, I your letter did peruse;
So elegant the style you use,
Abash’d, confounded I did muse
Struck with amaze;
Great wit and learning you diffuse
In all your lays.
You’ve been upon Parnassus’ top,
More high than Alexander Pope;
And wild Arabia’s plains you grope
For Phenix rare,
That useful knowledge you may drop,
While dunces stare.
Your Pegasus, still on the wing,
More sweet than Philomel you sing;
And swift from distant climes you bring
Notes hard to read:
Does Phenix, sir, from ashes spring?
’Tis strange indeed.
But more difficult ’tis to scan,
That dire, deceitful creature man;
Of all the work in Nature’s plan,
Sure none can be
So intricate to understan’,
As mystic he.
His breast is fill’d with mazy wiles;
His count’nance stor’d with fickle smiles:
His flatt’ring speech too oft beguiles
Pure innocence;
And when he writes, his lofty style’s
Replete with sense.