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From that hour has reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;
Henry fled with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with frenzied thoughts beset;
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met.
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty,
Still I slowly pace the plain;
While each passer by in pity
Cries-God help thee, Crazy Jane!





WOULD not have you, Strephon, chuse a mate

From too exalted, or too mean a state;

For in both these we may expect to find,
A creeping spirit, or a haughty mind.
Who moves within the middle region shares
The least disquiets, and the smallest cares;
Let her extraction with true lustre shine,
If something brighter, not too bright for thine;
Her education liberal, not great;

Neither inferior; nor above her state.

Let her have wit, but let that wit be free
From affectation, pride, and pedantry;
For the effect of woman's wit is such,
Too little is as dangerous as too much;
But chiefly let her humour close with thine,
Unless where yours does to a fault incline;
The least disparity in this destroys,
Like sulph'rous blasts, the very buds of joys.
Her person amiable, straight, and free,
From natural, or chance deformity:
Let not her years exceed, if equal thine,
For women past their vigour soon decline.
Her fortune competent; and if thy sight
Can reach so far, take care 'tis gather'd right:
If thine's enough, then hers may be the less;
Do not aspire to riches in excess;

For that which makes our lives delightful prove, Is a genteel sufficiency and love.



BUT see! the well-plum'd hearse comes nodding on,

Stately and slow, and properly attended

By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door and live upon the dead,

By letting out their persons by the hour

To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd
And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,

In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people
Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements,
And houses tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcase
That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty stir?-'Tis wisely done:
What would offend the eye in a good picture,
The painter casts discreetly into shades.




A PENSIVE sadness overwhelms my soul,

And fills my mind with melancholy dread; For, hark! I hear the solemn awful toll,

That leads my thoughts to contemplate the dead.

Perhaps some gay Lothario now is laid

In "narrow cell," and freed from mortal care: Perhaps some charming artless lovely maid, Her sex's pride, the fairest of the fair.

Ah! what is beauty, what is elegance?
What is the radiance of the brightest eye?
When death begins to lead the awful dance*,
We turn to dust, and are but vanity.

Say, can bright beauty's magic power save
Its lov'd possessor from the loathsome tomb?
O! while ambition's colours round us wave,
Can we escape th' inevitable doom?

Nor wealth, nor power, nor proud looks avail, Inexorable Death no favour shows;

We all must travel through the gloomy vale, That leads to endless joys, or endless woes.

• Alluding to Hans Holbein's painting of the "Dance of Death."


To Maria, on reading to her Sterne's beautiful Story of that Name.

As Sterne's pathetic tale you hear,
Why rudely check the rising sigh?
Why seek to hide the pitying tear,
Whose lustre aids the brilliant eye?

Tears which lament another's woe,
Unveil the goodness of the heart;
Uncheck'd, unheeded these should flow-
They please beyond the pow'r of art.

Does not yon crimson-tinted rose,

Whose op'ning blush delights the view,

More splendid colouring disclose,

When brightly gemm'd with morning dew?

So shall Maria's beauteous face,

Drest in more pleasing charms appear;

When aided by the matchless grace
Of Pity's sympathizing Tear.

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