A SONG, in PHILANDER. A Dramatic Pastoral.
Set by Mr. OSWALD. […] Think what the hapless virgin proves, who loves in vain, yet […] fondly loves; While modesty and female pride, The […]
POETRY
On reading a POEM written by a Lady of Quality.
I. AFRAID to be pleas’d, and with envy half fir’d, Still wishing to blame, while by force I admir’d, New beauties appearing as farther I […]
To DEATH. An irregular ODE.
I. OH death, thou gentle end of human pain, Why is thy stroke so long delay’d? Why to a wretch, who breathes but to complain, […]
TO THE Author of the LADY’S MUSEUM.
MADAM, THE inclosed little poem was written by the celebrated Earl of Dorset. It was never published, and may possibly be acceptable to some of […]
On reading HUTCHINSON on the PASSIONS.
THOU, who thro’ nature’s various maze can’st rove, And shew what springs the rapid passions move; Teach us to combat anger, grief, and fear, Recal […]
SHALUM, Master of MOUNT TIRZAH, to HILPA, mistress of the Valleys.
An Ante-diluvian Love Letter. By a Young Lady. WHAT thought can represent my vast distress? What words the anguish of my soul express, When to […]
HILPA, Mistress of the Valleys, to SHALUM, Master of Mount Tirzah. By the same.
O Shalum cease, nor vainly try to move The heart of Hilpa, to receive thy love. These praises of my form I well could spare, […]
The MORNING. By the same.
THE moon, pale majesty of night, retires, To gild remoter climes with fainter fires: The shadows fly before the breaking dawn, Now rise to view […]
An ODE. By a LADY.
I. AH, why my love that pensive air? Why dost thou droop with secret care? Big tears fall silent from thy eyes, Thy bosom heaves […]
THE JUDGMENT of PARIS. A POEM.
Sent to the Author of the Lady’s Museum, by a Friend. ‘Nobis forma placet; sapientia, regna, valete.’ DAUGHTERS of Jove, immortal Nine, inspire This artless […]
A POETICAL EPISTLE From BUSY, the Lap-dog, in London, to SNOWBALL, the Buck-hound, in Windsor Forest.
June 27, 1760. IF we, like men, could envy and malign, At Nature’s, or at Fortune’s gifts repine; When great be insolent, when little mean, […]
To ISMENE playing on a Lute.
WHEN fair Ismene to the grove retires, And joins her warbling accents to the lyre’s; How sweet th’ enchanting sounds! the melting strains, With pleasing […]