And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

Tell me, Shepherds! have ye seen My delight, my Love, my Queen?

From WHITE's and WILL'S,
To purling rills,

The love-sick STREPHON flies!
There, full of woe,

His Numbers flow;
And all in rhyme he dies!

The fair Coquette,
With feigned regret,

Invites him back to Town;

But when, in tears,

The Youth appears;

She meets him with a frown!

Full oft the Maid,

This prank had played, 'Till angry STREPHON swore; And what is strange,

Though loth to change,

Would never see her more!

ALEXANDER POPE.

TO LADY WINCHILSEA.
OCCASIONED BY FOUR VERSES IN

'THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.'

In vain you boast poetic names of yore;
And cite those SAPPHOS we admire no more!
Fate doomed the fall of every Female Wit;
But doomed it then, when first ARDELIA writ!
Of all examples, by the World confest,
I knew ARDELIA could not quote the best!
Who, like her Mistress on BRITANNIA's throne,
Fights, and subdues, in quarrels not her own.

To write their praise, you but, in vain, essay !
Even while you write, you take that praise away!
Light to the stars, the sun does thus restore;
And shines himself, till they are seen no more!

LADY WINCHILSEA.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.

DISARMED with so genteel an Air,
The contest I give o'er!

Yet, ALEXANDER! have a care,
And shock the Sex no more!

We rule the World, our life's whole race!
Men but assume that right:
First, slaves to ev'ry tempting face;
Then, martyrs to our spite!

You, of one ORPHEUS, sure, have read!
Who would like you have writ,
Had he in London town been bred,
And polished too his wit.

But he, poor soul! thought all was well,
And great should be his fame!
When he had left his Wife in Hell;
And birds and beasts could tame.

Yet vent'ring then, with scoffing rhymes,
The women to incense;
Resenting heroines of those Times
Soon punished his offence!

And as the Hebrus rolled his skull
And harp besmeared with blood;
They, clashing as the waves grew full,
Still harmonized the flood.

But you, our follies gently treat,
And spin so fine the thread;

You need not fear his awkward fate!
The Lock won't cost the head!

Our admiration you command,
For all that 's gone before;
What next we look for at your hand,
Can only raise it more!

Yet soothe the Ladies, I advise!
(As me too, pride has wrought!)
We're born to wit; but to be wise,
By admonitions taught.

PERSUADE me not, there is a grace
Proceeds from SILVIA'S voice, or lute,
Against MIRANDA's charming face,

To make her hold the least dispute!

Music, which tunes the Soul for Love,
And stirs up all our soft desires,
Does but the growing flame improve,
Which powerful Beauty first inspires.

Thus, whilst with art she plays and sings, I, to MIRANDA, standing by,

Impute the music of the strings;

And all the melting words apply!

A NOCTURNAL REVERIE.

In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confined, And only gentle ZEPHYR fans his wings; And lonely PHILOMEL, still waking, sings, Or from some tree famed for the owl's delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right;

In such a night, when passing clouds give place, Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face; When, in some river, overhung with green, The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen; When freshened grass now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite; Whence spring the woodbine and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; While now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes;

When scattered glowworms, but in twilight fine, Shew trivial beauties, watch their hour to shine; Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright; When odours, which declined repelling day, Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;