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; 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; 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) Lovers you then will slay in plenty, 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, 'Tis still to make the bliss more dear, EPISTLE XI. ΤΟ A LADY, IN AUTUMN. BY THE LATE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. ASSES milk, half a pint, take at seven, or before, 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. |