Flavia the least and slightest toy,
Can with resistless art employ:
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love;
Yet she with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told or fairly seen,
Directs its flowing motion so,
That it wounds more than Cupid’s bow;
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To every other breast a flame.
_Written in Miss F―’s Pew at I― Church._
With awe, with pleasure and surprise,
I view the lightning of your eyes;
Lightning! that wounds me as it flies.
What prayer! what vow! to Heaven can go?
For all devotion you subdue;
At least, ’tis all transferred to you.
In vain is human strength―its boasted art―
While you sit here, you share my vows in part;
To Y―[4] I give my ears, to you my eyes and heart.
[4] The Minister.
_The Lucky Man._ BY MR. WELSTED.
I owe, says Metius, much to Colon’s care;
Once only seen, he chose me for his heir:
True, Metius; hence your fortunes take their rise;
His heir you were not, had he seen you twice.
_To Mr. T―d, on his complimenting Mr. F―de on his Poetry._
F―de writes well, you say; suppose it true,
You pawn your word for him;―he’ll vouch for you;
So two poor knaves, when once their credit fail,
To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.
_On a handsome Woman, with a fine voice, but very covetous and proud._
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
As had drawn both the beasts, and their Orpheus along;
But such is thy avarice and such is thy pride,
That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.
_Venus mistaken._ BY MR. PRIOR.
When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown,
Surprised, the goddess took it for her own;
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?
Pleased, Cupid heard, and checked his mother’s pride;
And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried.
’Tis Chloe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast,
Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest.
_Epitaph on Mr. Harcourt’s Tomb._ BY MR. POPE.
To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near,
Here lies the friend most wept, the son most dear,
Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide,
Nor gave his father grief―but when he died.
How vain is reason! eloquence how weak!
When Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak.
Yet let thy once-loved friend inscribe the stone,
And with a father’s sorrow mix his own.
Ah, no! ’tis vain to strive―it will not be;
No grief that can be told is felt for thee.
_Prometheus ill-painted._ BY MR. COWLEY.
How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here.
Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands,
He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands.
It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now.
_On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes._ BY MR. MOTTLEY.
Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder,
Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder:
But thy predictions come not in a storm,
They are delivered by the brightest form:
If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky,
Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye.
_The Cure of Love._
When, Chloe, I confess my pain,
In gentle words your pity show;
But gentle words are all in vain,
Such gales my flame but higher blow.
Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart
Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made,
Yourself upon my bleeding heart―
Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.
Thus for the viper’s sting we know,
No surer remedy is found,
Than to apply the tort’ring foe,
And squeeze his venom on the wound
_Epitaph on an unknown Person._
Without a name, for ever senseless, dumb,
Dust, ashes, nought else, lies within this tomb.
Where’er I lived, or died, it matters not;
To whom related, or by whom begot;
I was, but am not, ask no more of me―
It’s all I am, and all that thou shalt be.
_Epitaph._
Here lies a lady, who, if not belied,
Took wise St Paul’s advice, and all things tried;
Nor stopt she here; but followed through the rest,
And always stuck the longest to the best.
_In a window of a room in the Tower of London is written_;