"Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clafp'd her to his breast:

The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide;'Twas Edwin's felf that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

"My charmer turn to see

"Thy own, thy long loft Edwin here, "Reftor'd to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, "And ev'ry care refign,

"And fhall we never, never part, "My life-my all that's mine?

"No, never, from this hour to part, "We'll live and love fo true:

"The figh that rends thy conftant heart, "Shall break thy Edwin's too.

C

AN

ELEGY

ΟΝ ΤΗΣ

DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD

people all, of ev'ry fort,

Give ear unto my fong;

And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Iflington there was a man,
Of whom the world might fay,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked ev'ry day he clad,

When he put on his cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mungrel, puppy, whelp and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This

This dog and man at first were friends;
Bur when the pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighb'ring streets,
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And fwore the dog had loft his wits,
To bite fo good a man.

The wound it feem'd both fore and sad,

To ev'ry christian eye;

And while they fwore the dog was mad,
They fwore the man would die.

But foon a wonder came to light,
That fhew'd the rogues they lied,
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that dy'd.

STANZAS

ON

WOM A N.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can footh her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her fhame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover;

And wring his bofomis to die.

THE

GIFT:

TO IRIS,

IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual off'ring fhall I make
Expreffive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry Fair One prize
The gift, who flights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
My rivals give and let 'em.

If

gems or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give-but not the full-blown rofe,
Or rofe-bud more in fashion;
Such fhort-liv'd off'rings but difclofe
A tranfitory paffion.

I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,
Not lefs fincere than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the Devil.