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Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting, and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well expressed, Influenced mightily the rest; All paired, and each pair built a nest.

But though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow : ; into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled ; Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learned in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry—

Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.

EPITAPH ON A HARE,

ERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo.

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With Sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel,

And, when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,

To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,

Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,

And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,

And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.

EEM not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn, Thy friend, though to a cloister's shade consigned, Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn In F. Sier days to brighter prospects born, Oh, tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind, Like thee, content in every state may find, And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn ;

To steer with nicest art betwixt the extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease :

WRITTEN IN A QUARREL (The IELIVERY of IT PREVENTED BY A REconcILIATIon).

HINK, Delia, with what cruel haste
Our fleeting pleasures move,
Nor heedless thus in sorrow waste
The moments due to love ;

Be wise, my fair, and gently treat
These few that are our friends;

Think, thus abused, what sad regret
Their speedy flight attends !

Sure in those eyes I loved so well,
And wished so long to see,

Anger I thought could never dwell,
Oranger aimed at me.

No bold offence of mine I knew
Should e'er provoke your hate;

And, early taught to think you true,
Still hoped a gentler fate.

With kindness bless the present hour,
Or oh we meet in vain

What can we do in absence more
Than suffer and complain }

Fated to ills beyond redress,
We must endure our woe ;

The days allowed us to possess,
'Tis madness to forego.

THE SYMPTOMS OF LOWE,

OULD my Delia know if I love, let her take W W My last thought at night and the first when I wake; When my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.

Let her guess what I muse on, when rambling alone
I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun,
Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.

Let her think what odd whimsies I have in my brain,
When I read one page over and over again,
And discover at last that I read it in vain,

Let her say why so fixed and so steady my look,
Without ever regarding the person who spoke,
Still affecting to laugh, without hearing the joke.

Or why when with pleasure her praises I hear
(That sweetest of melody sure to my ear),
I attend, and at once inattentive appear.

And lastly, when summoned to drink to my flame,
Let her guess why I never once mention her name,
Though herself and the woman I love are the same,

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