EPISTLE X.

ΤΟ

MISS ANNE CONOLLY,

FROM

MISS COURTENAY.

MAY, 1753.

THO' kind your words-how full of sorrow! "Adieu! dear Bell-we part to-morrow!” Farewell! dear sister of my youth,

Ally'd by honor, love, and truth;
Farewell our visits, sports, and plays,
Sweet solace of our childish days;
Farewell our walks to Park and Mall,
Our jaunts to concert, route, or ball;
Farewell our dish of sprightly chat,
Of who said this-and who did that;
Critiques on scissars, needles, pins,
Fans, aigrettes, ribbands, capuchins,
Along farewell! Conolly flies

To distant suns, and diff'rent skies!

A Muse in tears moves slow and dull, How weak the head, the heart so full!

Slight sorrows find an easy vent,

And trifling cares are eloquent;
Sad silence only can express,
The genuine pains of deep distress;
Yet I cou'd rave in darken'd chamber
On seas of milk, and ships of amber,
Like frantic Belvidera, when is
Perform'd the tragedy of Venice
Preserv'd-Oh! as I hope to marry,
Cibber is parted from her Barry;
This by the by, may serve as news
To-morrow on your way t'amuse,
It causes great, great speculation-
Part of the business of the nation.

But hang digressions—to return; And must I three long winters mourn? That tedious length spun out and past We meet-but how improv'd your taste! Your figure, manner, dress, and wit, With all things for a Lady fit; For, entre nous, my dear, our faces Should be the least of all our graces; If nought but Beauty wings the dart, We strike the eye, but miss the heart; But hush, and till we meet again, Pray keep this secret from the men: Should the weak things this truth discover, How few coquettes would keep a lover!

And yet, so plain (tho' blind you know)
Milton could see it years ago:
Thus has the bard our sex attackt,
"Fair outward, inward less exact."
But you a strong exception stand,
With Wit and Beauty hand in hand,
Apart how weak! combin'd how strong!
They'll sweep whole ranks of hearts along;
Before such pow'rs each foe will fly,
That principal, and this ally.

Lovers you then will slay in plenty,
Like Bobadil each day your twenty;

Then will you grow the topic common,

"How soon, (they'll say) shot up a woman! "What eyes! what lips! how fine each feature! "Fore gad!—a most delicious creature !”This from the beaux-Mean time each belle, in Mere 'spite, my dear, at your excelling, Stung to the heart and devilish jealous Of homage paid by pretty fellows. Shall flirt her fan, and toss, and snuff, And cry" "The thing is well enough— "But for my soul, to say what's true t'ye, "I can't find out where lies her beauty." Mean time you smile with sweet disdain, Like Dian 'midst her meaner train.

Thus my prophetic soul foreknows What Time shall more anon disclose.

Swift move that time on rapid wing,
And news of dear Conolly bring:
Yet let not those who love, complain,
If thus to part is killing pain,

'Tis still to make the bliss more dear,
When the sweet hour of meeting's near.
So streams are sever'd in their course
To join again with double force.

EPISTLE XI.

ΤΟ

A LADY, IN AUTUMN.

BY THE LATE

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

ASSES milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before,
Then sleep for an hour or two, and no more.
At nine stretch your arms, and oh! think when alone,
There's no pleasure in bed.-MARY, bring me my

gown:

Slip on that ere you rise; let your caution be such : Keep all cold from your breast, there's already too much;

Your pinners set right, your twitcher ty'd on,

Your prayers at an end, and your breakfast quite done; Retire to some author, improving and gay,

And with sense like your own, set your mind for the day.

At twelve you may walk, for at this time o' the year, The sun, like your wit, is as mild as 'tis clear:

But mark in the meadows the ruin of Time;

Take the hint, and let life be improv❜d in its prime.
Return not in haste, nor of dressing take heed;
For beauty, like yours, no assistance can need.