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In all her births, though of the meanest kinds,
Behold how bright these gaudy trifles shine, The lovely sportings of a hand divine ! See with what art each curious shell is made, Here carv'd 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'd, 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 you
How sweet, how charming, will appear this Grot, When by your art to full perfection brought ! Here verdant plants, and blooming flow'rs will grow, There bubbling currents through the shell-work flow; Here coral mix'd with shells of various dies, There polish'd stone will charm our wond'ring eyes; Delightful bow'r 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 company, 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 ride imprison'd in a velvet chair, And makes the warbling nightingale her choice, Before the thrills of Farinelli's voice; Prefers her books, and conscience void of ill, To concerts, balls, assemblies, and quadrille: Sweet bow'rs 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.
IN ANSWER TO A LETTER
WRITTEN IN A VERY FINE HAND.
By the Same.
Whilst well-wrote lines our wond'ring eyes com
See with what art the sable currents stain
See, like some virgin, whose unmeaning charms
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 your feather'd weapons in your hands, From pole to pole you send your great commands; To distant climes in vain the lover flies, Your pen o’ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes; So those, who from the sword in battle run, But perish victims to the distant gun.
Beauty's a short-liv'd blaze, a fading flow'r, But these are charms 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 To 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 liopes to steal your