Not Berenice's locks could boast A grace like thine! Among the host Of stars though now transformed, they guide Nor Venus, when a form like thine To wave and wanton in the balmy wind. TO A LADY WHO WAS FOND OF DRESS. ANOTHER TRANSLATION OF THE SAME, BY THE [From a Volume of Poems. Sunderland, 1793, 8vo.] ENOUGH, my Celia! lay these arts aside, As void of art the rural verdure blooms, As unconstrained the silver fountains glide, And softly wind their murm'ring streams along, While from the spray that trembles o'er the tide, The tuneful choir their untaught notes prolong; Yet please the more; since nature's magic hand So thee, in thine own genuine charms arrayed, Love unadorned abhors the pomp of dress, Its borrowed splendour, and its vain disguise, Since then superior beauty needs no foil, Thy graceful tresses, gentle Celia, spare, Torture no more those lovely locks, nor soil With odoriferous dust thy golden hair. Not such famed Ptolemy's transcendant queen, Nor Cytherea, when to meet her son, Her state divine the goddess left behind, THE LINK. A BALLAD. [From the 4th vol. of Dodsley's Collection. The Link was the name of a favourite walk, on the brow of a hill, near Ovington.] Ye ladies, that live in the city or town, Fair Winton, or Alresford, so fine and so gay; And ye neat country lasses, in clean linen gown, As neat, and as blithe, and as pretty, as they; Come away straight to Ovington'; for you can't think Look how lovely the prospect, the meadows how green, How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky, And the blood circles briskly, and glows in your face. Would you paint your fair cheeks with the rose and the pink? Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link. After dinner the squire, ere the ladies retreat, Marches off with some friends that will ply the brisk glass; Give us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat, And avaunt your fine taste, and your finical lass; Al fresco, my lads, we'll carouse and we'll drink, Take your bottle each man, and away to the Link. Not so gentle Colin, whom love holds in thrall, To Molly he steals all in silence away; And when nought can be heard but the rude waterfall, And the woodbine breathes sweetest at close of the day, He takes her soft hand, and he tips her the wink, But, O ye fair maidens, be sure have a care, Of the hour and the place and the season beware, 1 A village, near Alresford, in Hampshire. Sly Cupid will steal in at some little chink, If you walk in the evening too late on the Link. Ye poets so lofty, who love to retire From the noise of the town, to the stream and the wood; Who in epics and tragics, with marvellous fire, Utter sounds by mere mortals not well understood: Here mouth your loud strain, and here ply pen and ink, Quit Parnassus and Pindus, and come to the Link. And come you, who for thought are at little expense, Who indite gentle pastoral, ballad, or song; You see with smooth numbers, and not too much sense, And the rhyme at the close how it falls with a clink,- REVERENDO DOCTISSIMOQUE ROBERTO FRIEND, S.T.P. ECCLESIÆ DIVI PETRI WESTMONAST. PREBENDARIO, ET ÆDIS CHRISTI OXON. CANONICO. [From the Gentleman's Magazine for 1737.] De te, Friende, duæ certant socialiter ædes, Dat. 10 Kal. Julii, A. S. 1737 R. L. 494 TO DR. FRIEND. TRANSLATION, BY THE EDITOR. grace, Thy nurture, Friend, two rival buildings claim, HANNE MORE. VIRGINI PIÆ, ERUDITÆ, ELEGANTI; INGENIO, FACUNDIA, ET SAPIENTIA, PARITER ILLUSTRI. [From Valpy's Classical Journal.] " OMNES Sulpiciam legant puellæ 2;" 66 Cujus carmina qui benè æstimarit, Huic adsunt Charites, faventque Musæ, 1781. Of Newcastle. R. LONDON. 2 Martial x. 35. |