The charm that fix'd your husband's love;
Weigh well his humour. Was it dress
That gave your beauty pow'r to bless?
Pursue it still; be neater seen;
"Tis always frugal to be clean;

So shall you keep alive desire

And time's swift wing shall fan the fire.

So soft, so smooth his verse, you'd swear
Apollo and the muses there;

Through all the town his praises rung
His sonnets at the playhouse sung;
High waving o'er his lab'ring head
The goddess Want her pinions spread,
And with poetic fury fir'd,

What Phoebus faintly had inspir'd.

A noble youth of taste and wit Approv'd the sprightly things he writ, And sought him in his cobweb dome, Discharg'd his rent, and brought him home.

Behold him at the stately board, Who, but the poet, and my Lord! Each day deliciously he dines,

And greedy quaffs the gen'rous wines. His sides were plump, his skin was sleek,

Tracé, je crois, la fidèle peinture; Pour son amant on veut de la parure, Pour son époux on reste en négligé.

DANS un grenier, certain poëte
Formait des chants mélodieux
Dignes de l'asile des dieux
Dont le rapprochait sa retraite.
Il n'était bruit que de ses vers;
Son nom perçait dans l'univers.
Le besoin, ce dieu famélique,
L'appellant sans cesse au travail,
Mieux qu'Apollon et son sérail,
Allumait son feu poétique.

Un lord riche et spirituel,
Car la scène est en Angleterre,
Vint le prendre à son belvédère
Et le logea dans son hôtel.

Là, dans le sein de l'opulence,
Un bon lit et de bons repas,
Mets friands et vins délicats

Embellissent son existence,

Gras comme un homme de finance

And plenty wanton'd on his cheek;
Astonish'd at the change so new,
Away th'inspiring goddess flew.

Now, dropt for politics and news,
Neglected lay the drooping muse;
Unmindful whence his fortune came,
He stifled the poetic flame;
Nor tale, nor sonnet for my lady
Lampoon nor epigram was ready.

With just contempt his patron saw,
Resolv'd his bounty to withdraw;
'And thus, with anger in his look,
The late-repenting fool bespoke:

«Blind to the good that courts thee grown Whence has the sun of favour shone?

Delighted with thy tuneful art,

> Esteem was growing in my heart;

But idly thou reject'st the charm
That gave it birth, and kept it warm. »

Unthinking fools alone despise

The arts, that taught them first to rise.

Notre rimeur voit sans regret S'enfuir la maigre corpulence Du Dieu qui jadis l'inspirait. Dès ce moment, notre poëte Se lève tard, dine long-tems, Se promène, lit la gazette, Adieu les vers et les talens; Plus de sonnets, plus d'épigrammes; Plus de madrigaux pour ces dames. Son patron justement surpris, Un matin, sans cérémonie, Très-froidement le congédie. « J'aimais, lui dit-il, vos écrits; >> Mais vous avez fait disparaître » L'estime qui sut nous unir: » Votre talent l'avait fait naître, » Lui seul pouvait l'entretenir. »

Jeunes auteurs, femmes charmantes, Ah! croyez-moi, ne négligez jamais Les beaux talens ou les grâces touchantes Qui firent vos premiers succès.

THOMSON.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE SEASONS, A POEM.

THE FIRST EFFECTS OF SPRING.

AND see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravag'd vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulpht
To shake the sounding marsh; or, from the shore,