Behold the wretched Matron---madly weep, A PETITION TO THE WORSHIPFUL FREE MASONS, Delivered from the Stage by a Lady, at a Comedy countenanced by that Fraternity. BROTHERS---it is bold to interrupt your meeting, 17 [Curtsies. The ladies can advance a thousand reasons Why should the fair be barr'd from---installation? Think---Brothers!---think, and graciously admit us; Doubt it not, Sirs, we'll gloriously acquit us. And virtue, we're convinc'd, will never leave us. 20 A POSTCRIPT. WOULD honest Tom G-----d* get rid of a scold, Pray tell him to take down his Lion of Gold, A FRAGMENT. Part of a Poem wrote on Miss Bellamy when in Dublin. FROM slavish rules, mechanic forms, unty'd, *Landled of the Golden Lion, at an Inn in Yorkshire. Each magic charm the boasted Oldfield knew, 'Tis thine, resistless, the superior art, To search the soul, and trace the various heart; * Oldmixon's charms, by melody imprest, Or should Mechel† all languishing advance, A FRAGMENT. TO MR. WOODS, Architect of the Exchange at Liverpool. WHERE Mersey rolls her wealth-bestowing waves And the wide sandy beech triumphant laves; Where naval store in harbour'd safety rides, Unmov'd by storms, unhurt by threat'ning tides; Commerce--paternal goddess! sits serene, Commandant of the tributes of the main. * A lady celebrated for singing. A dancer then in Smock-alley Theatre. 19 But yet no temple lifts its high-topp'd spire; Simple her seat---and artless her attire! Around attendant priests in order wait, Guiltless of pomp and ignorant of state : The godhead's pow'r tho' unadorn'd they own, And bend with incense---at her low-built throne. Pallas beheld---she quits the ambient skies, And thus the blue-ey'd maid indignant cries: "Is it for thee---my Woods !---to sit supine? (Thy genius fraught with ev'ry grace of mine) "Is it for thee---to whose mysterious hand "Science---and sister Arts obsequious stand, "Inglorious thus to let a goddess pine ? 10 "No throne---no temple---no superior shrine ! 20 "Haste, haste! command the well-wrought columns rise, "And lift my fav'rite Commerce to the skies." A RECANTATION. OF spleen so dormant, indolence so great, ACROSTICK. PRAY tell me, says Venus, one day to the Graces, Says Cupid, who guess'd their rebellious proceeding, Understand, dear Mamma! there's some mischief abreeding; There's a fair one at Lincoln, so finish'd a beauty, That your Loves and your Graces all swerve from their duty. On my life, says Dame Venus, I'll not be thus put on; Now I think on't, last night some one call'd me Miss Sutton. ACROSTICK. WHERE no ripen'd summer glows In the lap of northern snows, Only let the nymph be there, Wreaths of budding sweets would wear. |