By TOM BROWN.

To1 charming Calia's arms I flew,

And there all night I feasted;

No god such transport ever knew,

Or mortal ever tasted.

Lost in the sweet tumultuous joy,
And blessed beyond expressing,
"How can your slave, my fair," said I,
"Reward so great a blessing?

"The whole creation's wealth survey,
O'er both the Indies wander;
Ask what bribed senates give away,

And fighting monarchs squander;

1 An imitation of the following epigram of Martial (xii. 65):

"Formosa Phillis nocte cum mihi tota
Se præstitisset omnibus modis largam,
Et cogitarem mane quod darem munus,
Utrumne Cosmi, Nicerotis an libram,
An Bæticarum pondus acre lanarum,
An de moneta Cæsaris decem flavos :
Amplexa collum basioque tam longo
Blandita, quam sunt nuptiæ columbarum,
Rogare cœpit Phillis amphoram vini."

Q

"The richest spoils of earth and air,

The rifled ocean's treasure:

'Tis all too poor a bribe by far

To purchase so much pleasure.”

She blushing cried, "My life, my dear,
Since Cælia thus you fancy,
Give her but 'tis too much, I fear,-

A rundlet of right Nantzy."

By WILLIAM WALSH.

UPON A FAVOUR OFFERED.

ÆLIA, too late you would repent:

CE

The off'ring all your store

Is now but like a pardon sent

To one that's dead before.

While at the first you cruel proved,
And grant the bliss too late,
You hindered me of one I loved

To give me one I hate.

I thought you innocent as fair

When first my court I made;

But when your falsehoods plain appear My love no longer stayed.

Your bounty of those favours shown,

Whose worth you first deface,

Is melting valued metals down
And giving us the brass.

Oh since the thing we beg 's a toy
That's prized by love alone,
Why cannot women grant the joy
Before our love is gone?

By WILLIAM WALSH.

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

D

ISTRACTED with care

For Phillis the fair,

Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,

Resolves in despair

No longer to languish

Nor bear so much anguish ;

But, mad with his love,

To a precipice goes,

Where a leap from above

Would soon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,

Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;

His torments projecting,

And sadly reflecting

That a lover forsaken

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken Isn't easily set;

And that he could die
Whenever he would,

But that he could live

But as long as he could:
How grievous soever

The torment might grow,

He scorned to endeavour

To finish it so ;

And bold, unconcerned

At thoughts of the pain,

He calmly returned

To his cottage again.

By BISHOP ATTERBURY.

WRITTEN ON A WHITE FAN BORROWED FROM MISS OSBORNE, AFTERWARDS HIS WIFE.

LAVIA the least and slightest toy

FLA

Can with resistless art employ:
This fan in meaner hands would prove
An engine of small force in love;
Yet she with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told or safely seen,

Directs its wanton motions so

That it wounds more than Cupid's bow;
Gives coolness to the matchless dame,
To every other breast—a flame.