With balmy breath, and flowery tread, Awake, in all thy glories drest! See! all her works demand thy aid! Come then, with Pleasure at thy side! Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide! Create, where'er thou turn'st thy eye, Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony; Till ev'ry being share its part, And Heaven and Earth be glad at heart! A BALLAD IMITATION OF MARTIAL, LIB. VI. EP. 34., ON LADY [ELIZABETH] ILCHESTER ASKING LORD ILCHESTER, HOW MANY KISSES HE WOULD HAVE? Written at Redlynch [Park, Somerset], in August 1740. DEAR BETTY! come, give me sweet kisses! But why, in the midst of our blisses, Count the bees that on Hybla are straying! To a heart full of love, let me hold thee! A heart that, dear BETTY! is thine! And curl round thy neck like a vine! A SONG ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY, ADDRESSED TO THE REV. Mr. Birt. DEAR Doctor of St. Mary's, With a shape and face As never were matched by any. Such wit, such bloom, and beauty, And the wisest man a fool, Sir! At our Fair, t' other day, she appeared, Sir! And all of them said, She was fit to have been made A Wife for OWEN TUDOR!' They would ne'er have been tired with gazing! Till their ale grew dead, And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir! How happy the Lord of the Manor Who my HARRIET shall see, She's a HARRIET [heriot] of the best, Sir! Then, pray make a Ballad about her! You can never be blamed; 'But why don't you make one yourself, then?' I suppose I, by you shall be told, Sir! This beautiful piece, Alas! is my niece; And, besides, she 's but five years old, Sir! But though, my dear friend, she 's no older; Will, if she's alive, Be a Goddess at fifteen, Sir! AT St. Osyth's, near the Mill, How sweetly life would pass ! No bold intruding care, Our bliss should e'er annoy! Her looks can gild despair; And heighten every joy! Like Nature's rural scene, Her artless beauties charm! Like them, with joy serene Our wishing hearts they warm! Her wit, with sweetness crowned, Forget the short'ning day! Health, Freedom, Wealth, and Ease, Without her tasteless are! She gives them power to please; And makes them worth our care. Is there, ye Powers! a bliss |