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Epistle
To Miss Blount, on her leaving the Town, after the Coronation

ever:

IO

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the town to wholsom country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she

parts

for
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent,
She sigh'd not that They stay'd, but that She went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks,
She went from Op'ra, park, assembly, play,
To morning walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;
To pass her time 'twixt reading and Bohea,
To muse, and spill her solitary Tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after sev’n,
There starve and

pray, for that's the way to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack,
Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,
Then gives a smacking buss, and cries—No works!
Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;

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Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rise on ev'ry green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd Knights;
While the spread Fan o’ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls.

So when your slave, at some dear, idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of rhime)
Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you:
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite;
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;
Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look sow'r, and hum a tune—as you may now.

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The Universal Prayer

FATHER of All! in ev'ry Age,

In ev'ry Clime ador’d,
By Saint, by Savage, and by Sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

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Lines Written in Windsor Forest

All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade!

Scene of my youthful loves and happier hours ! Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd.

And gently press'd my hand, and said 'Be ours! Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse:

At Court thou may'st be liked, but nothing gain: Stock thou may'st buy and sell, but always lose,

And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.'

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