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TO LADY H

ON AN OLD RING FOUND AT TUNBRIDGE-WELLS.

Tunbridge Wells, August, 1805.

WHEN Grammont graced these happy springs,

And Tunbridge saw, upon her Pantiles,

The merriest wight of all the kings

That ever ruled these gay gallant isles;

Like us, by day, they rode, they walk'd,
At eve they did as we may do,
And Grammont just like Spencer talk'd,
And lovely Stewart smiled like you!

The only different trait is this,

That woman then, if man beset her,
Was rather given to saying "yes,"
Because as yet she knew no better!

Each night they held a coterie,
Where every fear to slumber charm'd,
Lovers were all they ought to be,

And husbands not the least alarm'd!

They call'd up all their school-day pranks,
Nor thought it much their sense beneath,
To play at riddles, quips, and cranks,
And lords show'd wit, and ladies teeth.

.་་

As-" Why are husbands like the Mint?"
Because, forsooth, a husband's duty
Is just to set the name and print

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That give a currency to beauty.

'Why is a garden's wilder'd maze

Like a young widow, fresh and fair?"

Because it wants some hand to raise

The weeds, which "have no business there!"

And thus they miss'd, and thus they hit,

And now they struck, and now they parried,

And some lay in of full-grown wit,

While others of a pun miscarried.

'Twas one of those facetious nights
That Grammont gave this forfeit ring
For breaking grave conundrum rites,
Or punning ill, or-some such thing;

From whence it can be fairly traced
Through many a branch and many a bough,
From twig to twig, until it graced

The snowy hand that wears it now.

All this I'll prove, and then-to you,
O Tunbridge! and your springs ironical,
I swear by H-the-te's eye of blue,
To dedicate th' important chronicle.
Long may your ancient inmates give
Their mantles to your modern lodgers,
And Charles's love in H-the-te live,
And Charles's bards revive in Rogers!

Let no pedantic fools be there,

For ever be those fops abolish'd, With heads as wooden as thy ware,

And, Heaven knows! not half so polish'd.

But still receive the mild, the gay,
The few who know the rare delight
Of reading Grammont every day,
And acting Grammont every night!

ΤΟ

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,

The lip, that 's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses
Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now, done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments
Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books-
O Fanny! they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above, And Music must borrow your sigh

As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels; Oh! show but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and to count you endeavour; But Eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you-

A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh! if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

IRISH MELODIES.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee
Sweeter far may be ;

But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me.
When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning.
Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.

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