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The griesly king: in vain the tyrant tried
His awful terrors-for she smil❜d, and died.

You too, ye libertines, who idly jest With virtue wrong'd, and innocence distrest; Who vainly boast of what should be your shame, And triumph in the wreck of female fame ; Be warn'd, like Belford, and behold, with dread, The hand of vengeance hovering o'er your head! If not, in Belton's agonies you view What dying horrors are reserv'd for you.

In vain even Lovelace, healthy, young, and gay, By nature form'd to please, and to betray, Tried from himself, by change of place, to run; For that intruder, Thought, he could not shun. Tasteless were all the pleasures that he view'd In foreign courts; for conscience still pursu'd: The lost Clarissa each succeeding night, In starry garment, swims before his sight; Nor ease by day her shrill complaints afford, But far more deeply wound than Morden's sword.

O! if a sage had thus on Attic plains Improv'd at once and charm'd the listening swains; Had he, with matchless energy of thought,

Great truths like these in antient Athens taught:
On fam'd Ilyssus' banks in Parian stone
His breathing bust conspicuous would have shone;

Even Plato, in Lyceum's awful shade,

Th' instructive page with transport had survey'd;
And own'd its author to have well supplied
The place his laws to Homer's self denied.

ΤΟ

MRS. BINDON,

At Bath.

BY THE HONORABLE

SIR CHA. HANBURY WILLIAMS, BART.

APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
And Delphi forsook for the sake of this isle.
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakspere, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have
own'd:

But now, since the laurel is given of late

To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo has quitted the isle he once lov'd,
And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
He vows and he swears he'll inspire us no more,
And has put out Pope's fires which he kindled be-
fore;

And further he says, men no longer shall boast
A science their slight and ill treatment hath lost;
But that women alone for the future shall write;
And who can resist, when they doubly delight?
And, lest we should doubt what he said to be true,
Has begun by inspiring Sapphira and You.

MRS. BINDON's

ANSWER.

WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last night,
And elate by your praises attempted to write,
I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,

And told him how many fine things you had said.
He smil❜d at my folly, and gave me to know,
Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you shew:
And then, says the God, still to make you more vain,
He hath promis'd that I shall enlighten your brain;
When he knows in his heart, if he speak but his mind,
That no woman alive can now boast I am kind:
For since Daphne to shun me grew into a laurel,
With the sex I have sworn still to keep up the quarrel.
I thought it all joke, till by writing to you,

I have prov'd his resentment, alas! but too true.

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