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Impute not then to vacant head,
Or what I've writ, or what I've said,
Which imputation can't be true,
Where head and heart's so full of you.

Like TRISTRAM SHANDY, I could write
From morn to noon, from noon to night,
Sometimes obscure, and sometimes leaning
A little sideways to a meaning,
And unfatigu'd myself, pursue
The civil mode of teazing you.
For as your folks who love the dwelling
On circumstance in story telling,
And to give each relation grace,
Describe the time, the folks, the place,
And are religiously exact
To point out each unmeaning fact,
Repeat their wonders undesired,
Nor think one liearer can be tired ;
So they who take a method worse,
And prose away,

like me,
Worry their mistress, friends or betters,
With satire, sonnet, ode, or letters,
And think the knack of pleasing follows
Each jingling pupil of APOLLO's.

Yet let it be a venial crime
That I address you thus in Rhyme.

in verse,

Nor think that I am Phæbus'-bit
By the Tarantula of wit,
But as the meanest critic knows
All females have a knack at prose,
And letters are the mode of writing
The ladies take the most delight in ;
Bold is the man, whose saucy aim
Leads him to form a rival claim;
A double death the victim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

With mine disgrace a lady's prose,
And put a nettle next a rose ?
Who would so long as taste prevails,
Compare St. James's with Versailles ?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the music of his woes,
In vain against the artist try'd,
But strain'd bis tuneful throat- and died.

Perhaps I sought the rhyming way, For reasons which have pow'rful sway. The swain, no doubt, with pleasure sues The nymph he's sure will not refuse, And more compassion may be found Amongst these goddesses of sound, Than always happens to the share Of the more cruel human fair;

Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their servant's grief,
As 'twere a sin to give relief.
They twist each easy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire
Of apprehension and desire,
As cock-chafers, with corking pin
The school-boy stabs, to make them spin.

For 'tis a maxim in love's school,
To make a man of sense a fool;
I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hopes and wishes to succeed;
But from his fear and apprehension,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er address with proper ease
The very person he would please.

Now Poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Strait go a courting to the muse.
But still some difference we find
"Twixt goddesses and human kind;
The muses' favours are ideal,
The ladies' scarce, but always real.
The Poet can, with little pain,
Create a mistress in his brain,

Heap each attraction, every grace
That should adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phyllisses and Delias more.
Or as the whim of passion burns,
Can court each frolic muse by turns;
Nor shall one word of blame be said,
Altho’ he take them all to bed.
The muse detests coquettry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt! 0 dishonest hateful name,
Your sex's pride, your sex's shame,
Which often bait their treacherous hook
With smile endearing, winning look,
And wind them in the easy heart
Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray
The wretch they mean to cast away.
No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling
To see the poor fond creature dangling,
Who rush like gudgeons to the bait,

gorge the mischief they should hate.
Yet sure such cruelties deface
Your virtues of their fairest grace.
And pity, which in woman's breast,
Should swim at top of all the rest,

Must such insidious sport condemn,
Which play to you, is death to them.

So have I often read or heard,
Though both upon a trav’ller's word,
(Authority may pass it down,
So, vide TRAVELS, by ED. BROWN)
At Merz, a dreadful engine stands,
Form'd like a maid, with folded hands,
Which finely drest, with primmest grace,
Receives the culprit's first embrace;
But at the second (dismal wonder!)
Unfolds, clasps, cuts bis heart asunder.

You'll say, perhaps, I love to rail, We'll end the matter with a tale.

A Robin once, who lov'd to stray, And hop about from spray to spray, Familiar as the folks were kind, Nor thought of mischief in his mind, Slight favours make the bold presume, Would flutter round the lady's room, And careless often take his stand Upon the lovely Flavia's hand. The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom sougbt,

- In short, the trifling fool was caught ; And happy in the fair one's grace, Would not accept an Eagle's place.

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