No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
IV.
The red-breaft oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid;
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
V.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts shake the fylvan cell:
Or 'midft the chace on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
VI.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more ;
And mourn'd, till Pity's felf be dead.
KILL'D in each art, that can adorn the fair,
The spritely dance, the foft Italian air, The tofs of quality, and high-bred fleer, Now lady Harriot reach'd her fifteenth year. Wing'd with diverfions all her moments flew, Each, as it pass'd, presenting something new; Breakfasts, and auctions wear the morn away, Each evening gives an opera, or a play; Then Brag's eternal joys all night remain, And kindly usher in the morn again.
For love no time has fhe, or inclination, Yet muft coquet it for the fake of fashion; For this she liftens to each fop that's near, T'embroider'd colonel flatters with a sneer, And the cropt enfign nuzzles in her ear
But with moft warmth her drefs and airs infpire
Th' ambitious bofom of the landed 'fquire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's fofter charms,
For wither'd lean right honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine,
Which fhe returns with insolence and scorn,
Nor deigns to fmile on a plebeian born.
Ere long by friends, by cards, and lovers cross'd,
Her fortune, health, and reputation loft;
Her money gone, yet not a tradesman paid,
Her fame, yet she still damn'd to be a maid,
Her fpirits fink, her nerves are fo unftrung,
She weeps, if but a handsome thief is hung:
By mercers, lacemen, mantua-makers press'd,
But moft for ready cash for play diftrefs'd,
Where can fhe turn?-the 'fquire must all repair,
She condescends to liften to his pray'r,
And marries him at length in mere defpair.
But foon th' endearments of a husband cloy,
Her foul, her frame incapable of joy :
She feels no transports in the bridal bed,
Of which so oft fh' has heard, fo much has read;
Then vex'd, that she should be condemn'd alone
To feek in vain this philofophick ftone,
To abler tutors fhe refolves t' apply,
A prostitute from curiofity:
Hence men of ev'ry fort, and ev'ry fize,
Impatient for heav'n's cordial drop, fhe tries;
The fribbling beau, the rough unwieldy clown,
The ruddy templar newly on the town,
Th' Hibernian captain of gigantick make,
The brimful parfon, and th' exhausted rake.
But ftill malignant Fate her wifh denies,
Cards yield fuperior joys, to cards fhe flies;
All night from rout to rout her chairmen run,
Again fhe plays, and is again undone.
Behold her now in Ruin's frightful jaws!
Bonds, judgments, executions ope their paws;
Seize jewels, furniture, and plate, nor spare
The gilded chariot, or the toffel'd chair,
For lonely feat she's forc'd to quit the town,
And Tubbs conveys the wretched exile down.
Now rumbling o'er the flones of Tyburn-road,
Ne'er prefs'd with a more griev'd or guilty load.
She bids adieu to all the well-known streets,
And envies ev'ry cinder-wench fhe meets:
And now the dreaded country first appears,
With fighs unfeign'd the dying noise she hears
Of diftant coaches fainter by degrees,
Then starts, and trembles at the fight of trees.
Silent and fullen, like fome captive queen,
She's drawn along, unwilling to be seen,
Until at length appears the ruin'd ball
Within the grafs-green moat, and ivy'd wall,
The doleful prison where for ever she,
But not, alas! her griefs, must bury'd be.
Her coach the curate and the tradesmen meet,
Great-coated tenants her arrival greet,
And boys with stubble bonfires light the street,
While bells her ears with tongues discordant grate,
Types of the nuptial tyes they celebrate :
But no rejoycings can unbend her brow,
Nor deigns fhe to return one aukward bow,
But bounces in difdaining once to speak,
And wipes the trickling tear from off her cheek.
Now fee her in the fad decline of life,
A peevish mistress, and a fulky wife;
Her nerves unbrac'd, her faded cheek grown pale
With many a real, many a fancy'd ail;
Of cards, admirers, equipage bereft,
Her infolence, and title only left;
Severely humbled to her one-horse chair,
And the low paftimes of a country fair:
Too wretched to endure one lonely day,
Too proud one friendly vifit to repay,
Too indolent to read, too criminal to pray.
At length half dead, half mad, and quite confin'd,
Shunning, and fhunn'd by all of human kind,
Ev'n robb'd of the laft comfort of her life,
Infulting the poor curate's callous wife,
Pride, difappointed pride, now ftops her breath,
And with true fcorpion rage fhe ftings herself to death.
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