Your defperate lovers wan and pale,
As needy culprits in a jail,
Who mufe and doat, and pine, and die,
Scorch'd by the light'ning of an eye,
(For ladies' eyes, with fatal stroke,
Will blaft the verieft heart of oak)
Will wrangle, bicker, and complain,
Merely to make it up again.
Though swain look glum, and miss look fiery,
'Tis nothing but amantium iræ,
And all the progrefs purely this -
A frown, a pout, a tear, a kiss.
Thus love and quarrels (April weather)
Like vinegar and oil together,
Join in an easy mingled ftrife,
To make the fallad up of life.
Love fettles beft from altercation,
As liquors after fermentation.
In a stage-coach, with lumber cramm'd,
Between two bulky bodies jamm'd,
Did you ne'er writhe yourself about,
To find the feat and cufhion out?
How disagreeably you fit,
With b-m awry, and place unfit,
So fares it with your fondling dolts,
And all love's quarrels are but jolts,
When tiffs arise, and words of ftrife
Turn one to two in man and wife,
(For that's a matrimonial courfe
Which yoke-mates must go through perf
And ev'ry married man is certain
T'attend the lecture call'd the curtain)
Tho' ot another word is faid,
When once the couple are in bed :
There things their proper channel keep,
(They make it up, and go to fleep)
Thefe fallings in and fallings out,
Sometimes with caufe, but most without
Are but the common modes of ftrife,
Which oil the springs of married life,
Where famenefs would create the fpleen,
For ever ftupidly ferene.
Obferve yon downy bed-to make it, You tofs the feathers up, and shake it. So fondness springs from words and fcuff As beds lie fmootheft after fhuffling.
But authors wranglings will create The very quinteffence of hate;
Peace is a fruitless vain endeavour,
Sworn foes for once, they're foes for ever:
-Oh! had it pleas'd my wifer betters
That I had never tafted letters,
Then no Parnaffian maggots bred,
Like fancies in a madman's head,
No graspings at an idle name,
No childish hope of future fame,
No impotence of wit had ta'en
Poffeffion of my mufe-ftruck brain.
Or had my birth, with fortune fit,
Varnifh'd the dunce, or made the wit;
I had not held a fhameful place,
Nor letters paid me with difgrace.
-O! for a pittance of my own,
That I might live unfought, unknown!
Retir'd from all this pedant ftrife,
Far from the cares of buft'ling life;
Far from the wits, the fools, the great,
And all the little world I hate.
MILK-M A I D.
WHOE'ER for pleasure plans a scheme,
Will find it vanifh like a dream,
Affording nothing found or real,
Where happiness is all ideal;
In grief, in joy, or either state,
Fancy will always antedate,
And when the thoughts on evil pore,
Anticipation makes it more.
Thus while the mind the future fees,
It cancels all its prefent ease.
Is Pleasure's scheme the point in view; How eagerly we all pursue !
Well-Tuesday is th'appointed day;
How flowly wears the time away!
How dull the interval between,
How darken'd o'er with clouds of spleen,
Did not the mind unlock her treasure,
And fancy feed on promis'd pleasure.
DELIA furveys, with curious eyes, The clouds collected in the skies;
Wishes no storm may rend the air,
And Tuesday may be dry and fair;
And I look round, my boys, and pray,
That Tuesday may be holiday.
Things duly fettled-what remains ?
Lo! Tuesday comes-alas! it rains;
And all our vifionary fchemes
Have died away, like golden dreams.
Once on a time, a rustic dame,
(No matter for the lady's name)
Wrapt up in deep imagination,
Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation ;
While on a bench fhe took her feat,
And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet,
Oft in her hand fhe chink'd the pence,
The profits which arose from thence;
While fond ideas fill'd her brain,
Of layings up, and monstrous gain,
Till every penny which she told,
Creative fancy turn'd to gold;
And reasoning thus from computation,
She spoke aloud her meditation.
"Please heav'n but to preserve my health, "No doubt I fhall have ftore of wealth;
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