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In all her birthis, though of the meanest kinds,
A just observer entertainment finds,
With fond delight her low productions sees,
And how she gently rises by degrees;
A shell or stone he can with pleasure view,
Hence trace her noblest works, the heav'ns and you.

Behold how bright these gaudy trifles shine, The lovely sportings of a hand divine ! See with what art each curious shell is made, Here carvid in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid !. What vivid streaks th' enamel'd stones adorn, Fair as the paintings of the purple morn! Yet still not half their charms can reach our eyes, While thus confus'd the sparkling chaos lies ; Doubly they'll please, when in your Grotto plac'i, They plainly speak the fair disposer's taste; Then glories yet unseen shall o'er them rise, New order from your hand, new lustre from your


How sweet, how charming, will appear this Grot, When by your art to full perfection brought! Here verdant plants and blooming flow'ss will grow, There bubbling currents through the shell-work flow; Here coral mix'd with shells of various dyes, There polish'd stone will charm our wond'ring eyes; D-lightful bower of bliss ! secure retreat! Fit for the Muses, and STATIRA's seat.

But still how good must be that fair-one's mind,
Who thus in solitude can pleasure find!
The Muse her coinpany, good-sense her guide,
Resistless charms her pow'r, but not her pride ;
Who thus forsakes the town, the park, and play,
In silent shades to pass her hours away ;
Who better likes to breathe fresh country air,
Than side imprison'd in a velvet chair,
And makes the warbling nightingale her choice,
Before the thrills of FARINELI's voice ;
Prefers her books, and conscience void of ill,
To concerts, balls, assemblies, and quadrille :
Sweet bow'ss more pleas'd, than gilded chariots sees,
For groves the play-house quits, and beaus for trees.

Blest is the man, whom heav'n shall grant one

hour, With such a lovely nymph, in such a lovely bow'r..

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By the Same.

Whilst well-wrote lines our wond'ring eyes com.

The Beauteous work of Chloe's artful hand,
Throughout the finish'd piece we see display'd
Th' exactest image of the lovely maid ;
Such is her wit, and such her form divine,
This pure, as flows the style through every line,
That, like each letter, exquisitely fine.

See with what art the sable currents stain
In wand'ring mazes all the milk white plain!
Thus o'er the meadows wrap'd in silver snow
Unfrozen brooks in dark meanders flow;
Thus jetty curls in shining ringlets deck
The ivory plain of lovely Chloe's neck:

See, like some virgin, whose unmeaning charms
Receive new lustre from a lover's arms,
The yielding paper's pure, but vacant breast,
By hier fair hand and flowing pen impressid,
At every touch more animated grows,
And with new life and new ideas glows;
Fresh beauties, from the kind defiler gains,
And shines each moment brighter from its stains.

Let mighty Love no longer boast his darts,
That strike unerring, aim'd at mortal hearts ;
Chloe, your quill can equal wonders do,
Wound full as sure, and at a distance too :
Arm'd with

feather'd weapons


your hands, From pole to pole you send your great commands; To distant climes in vain the lover flies,

o'ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes; So those, who from the sword in battle run, But perish victims to the distant gun.

Your pen

Beauty's a short-liv'd blaze, a fading flow's, But these are chains no ages can devour ; These, far superior to the brightest face, Triumph alike o'er time, as well as space, When that fair form, which thousands now adore, By years decay'd, shall tyrannize no more, These lovely lines shall future ages view, And eyes unborn, like ours, be charm’d by you...

How oft do I admire with fond delight The curious piece, and wish like you to write! Alas, vain hope that might as well aspire Το

copy Paulo's stroke, or Titian's fire: Ev'n now your splendid lines before me lie, And I in vain to imitate them try; Believe me, fair, I'm practising this art, To steal your hand, in hopes to steal your heart.


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