"And fhall I fee my love," faid I,
"Next morning near yon grove?"
Again a blush confent declar'd;
I thought that blush was love.

Nor envy me, ye blooming fwains,
That morn I met my fair;
Heard paffion faulter on her lips,
And tremble in her air.

Nor blame, ye prudes, to cenfure prone
Too foon fhe own'd her love;

Or ye who flutter round the ring,
And with diffemblers rove.

Unlike her fortune, and her fate,
Unlike her guiltless heart;
< She never wore the fpecious look,
Or language cloath'd with art!

‹ And now each day came wing'd with joy,
• All Nature fhone more bright:
A gayer prospect form'd each scene,
• For Delia bless'd my fight.

And when the fhades began to fall,
One ev'ning, from the hills,
And shepherds penn'd their fleecy care,
And ceas'd the tinkling bells;

On Windrush banks I clasp'd my fair,

And hung on ev'ry charm:

Our plighted faith bright Venus heard,

And vows with rapture warm.

• And

< And when next moon fhould fill her horns • With filver's gentle light,

• But, ah! why bleeds my heart afresh! • Why falls the recent tear!

• Before next moon had fill'd her horns, • She prefs'd the fable bier!

Her dying lips I fondly kifs'd,

And caught her parting breath;

• Heard fainting Nature speak my name, • When ev'ry throb was death!

• Wrapp'd in an agony of woe,
Long Reafon loft her feat:
• And oft I curs'd my ling'ring fate,
And long'd my fair to meet.

• And oft my wav'ring fancy faw
• Her rob'd in fhining white;
• And oft I tried to burst thro' life,
• To reach the fields of light.

Nor can the lapfe of time affuage • The current of my grief;

• As loft for ever is my love,

• So loft be all relief.

• And now I feel Death's leaden hand

• Arrest my vital tide;

Nor half fo bitter is the pang,

As when my. Delia dy'd.

• But

But live, ye fwains! fee happy days!
For me, this boon I crave;

• As Love had twin'd our hearts in one,
So be the fame our grave.

S Bathian Venus t'other day

A Invited all the gods to tea,

Her maids of honour, the Mifs Graces,

Attending duly in their places,

Their godships gave a loose to mirth,
As we at Butt'ring's here on earth.

Minerva, in her ufual way,

Rallied the daughter of the fea.

Madam,' faid fhe, your lov'd refort,
The city where you hold your court,

Is lately fallen from it's duty,

And triumphs more in wit than beauty; • For here,' fhe cried; fee here a poem• 'Tis Dalston's; you, Apollo, know him.

• Little persuasion sure invites

• Pallas to read what Dalfton writes:

Nay,

Nay, I have heard, that in Parnaffus *
For truth a current whifper paffes,
That Dalton fometimes has been known
To publish her works as his own."
Minerva read, and every god
Approv'd-Jove gave the critick nod:
Apollo and the facred Nine

Were charm'd, and fmil'd at ev'ry line;
And Mars, who little understood,

Swore, d--n him, if it was not good.
Venus alone fat all the while

Silent, nor deign'd a fingle fmile.

All were furpriz'd; fome thought her stupid:
Not fo her confident, Squire Cupid;
For well the little rogue difcern'd
At what his mother was concern'd;

Yet not a word the urchin said,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rifing choler broke
From Venus' lips-and thus fhe spoke.

That poetry fo cramm'd with wit, Minerva, fhould your palate hit,

• I wonder not; nor that fome prudes!

(For fuch there are above the clouds)

• Should wish the prize of beauty torn From her they view with envious fcorn.

• Me poets never please, but when

с

Juftice and truth direct their pen.

This Dalfton-formerly I've known him;
Henceforth for ever I difown him;

• For Homer's wit fhall I defpife

In him who writes with Homer's eyes.

A poem on the fairest fair

At Bath, and Betty's name not there!
Hath not this poet feen thofe glances
In which my wicked urchin dances?

• Nor

• Nor that dear dimple, where he treats
• Himself with all Arabia's fweets;
• In whofe foft down while he reposes,
In vain the lilies bloom, or roses,
To tempt him from a sweeter bed
• Of fairer white or livelier red?

• Hath he not feen, when some kind gale
Has blown afide the cambrick veil,
That feat of paradife, where Jove
Might pamper his almighty love?
Our milky way lefs fair does fhew:

'There fummer's feen 'twixt hills of fnow.
• From her lov'd voice whene'er she speaks,
• What foftness in each accent breaks!
• And when her dimpled smiles arise,
• What sweetness sparkles in her eyes!
Can I then bear,' enraged fhe faid,

Slights offer'd to my fav'rite maid;

• The nymph whom I decreed to be The representative of me?'

The goddess ceas'd-the gods all bow'd,
Not one the wicked bard avow'd,

Who, while in Beauty's praise he writ,
Dar'd Beauty's goddess to omit:
For now their godships recollected,
'Twas Venus' felf he had neglected,
Who in her vifits to this place,
Had still worn Betty Dalfton's face. `