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The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face :

To all his 'plaints the sleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh.
Such gloomy scenes with lovers’ minds agree,
And solitude to them is best society.

Cou'd I (he cry'd) express, how bright a grace Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wash'd face; Thou wou'dít, COLEMIRA, grant what I implore, And yield me love, or wash thy face no more.

Ah! who can see, and seeing, not admire,
Whene'er she sets the pot upon the fire !
Her hands out-shine the fire, and redder thirgs ;
Her eyes are blacker than the pot she brings.

But sure no chamber-damsel can compare,
When in meridian lustre shines my fair,
When warm'd with dinner's toil, in pearly rills,
Adown her goodly cheek the sweat distills.

Oh! how I long, how ardently desire, To view those rosy fingers strike the lyre ! For late, when bees to change their climes began, How did I see 'em thrum the frying-pan!

With

With her! I lou'd not envy G-his queerly
Tho' fhe in royal grandeur deck'd be seen:
Whilst rags, just fever'd from my fair-one's gown,
In ruffet pomp, and greasy pride hang down.

Ah! how it does my drooping heart rejoice, When in the hall I hear thy mellow voice! How wou'd that voice exceed the village-bell ; Wou'dst thou but sing, “ I like thee passing well!”

When from the hearth she bade the pointers go, How soft! how easy did her accents flow! “ Get out, she cry’d, when strangers come to sup, “ One ne'er can raise those snoring devils up.”

Then, full of wrath, she kick'd each lazy brute, Alas! I envy'd even that falute : 'Twas sure misplac'd, -Shock said, or seem'd to say, He had as lief, I had the kick, as they.

If she the mystic bellows take in hand,
Who like the fair can that machine command?
O may'st thou ne'er by Eolys be seen,
For he wou'd sure demand thee for his queen.

· But shou'd the fame this rougher aid refuse, And only gentler med’cines be of use; With full-blown cheeks she ends the doubtful strife, Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life.

Such 3

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Such arts, as these, exalt the drooping fire, But in my breast a fiercer flame inspire : I burn! I burn! O! give thy puffing o'er, And swell thy cheeks, and pout thy lips no more!

With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen ; When this proud damsel has more humble been, When with nice airs she hoist the pan-cake round, And dropt it, hapless fair! upon the ground. .

Look,with what charming grace!what winning tricks! The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks ! So bright she makes the candlesticks she handles, Oft have I said, there were no need of candles.

But thou, my fair! who never wou'dft approve, Or hear, the tender story of Or mind, how burns my raging breast,--a button Perhaps art dreaming of-a breast of mutton.

my love;

Thus faid, and wept the fad desponding swain, Revealing to the sable walls his pain : But nymphs are free with those they shou'd deny ; To those, they love, more exquisitely coy!

Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice,
The lambent Aames in languid streams arise,
And smoke in azure folds evaporates and dies.

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The

The Rape of the Trap.

A BALLAD, 1737.

'T The mufes

fayʻrite city,

WAS in a land of learning,

The muses fav’rite ci ,
Such pranks of late
Were play'd by a rat,

As-tempt one to be witty.

All in a college-study,

Where books were in great plenty:
This rat wou'd devour
More sense in an hour,

Than I cou'd write-in twenty.

Corporeal food, 'tis granted,

Serves vermin less refin'd, Sir;
But this, a rat of taste,
All other rats surpass’d;

And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir;

His breakfast, half the morning

He constantly attended; And when the bell rung For ev'ning-song,

His dinner scarce was eaded!

Fic

He spar'd not ev'n heroics,

On which we poets pride us ;
And wou'd make no more
Of king Arthur's *, by the score

Than-all the world beside does.

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In books of geo-graphy,

He made the maps to futter:
A river or a sea
Was to him a dish of tea;

And a kingdom, bread and butter.

But if some mawkish potion

Might chance to over-dose him,
To check its rage,
He took a page

Of logick—to compose him

A trap, in haste and anger,

Was bought, you need not doubt on't ;
And, such was the gin,
Were a lion once got in,

He cou'd not, I think, get out on's.

With cheese, not books, 'twas baited,

The fact-I'll not belye it-
Since none-I tell you that
Whether scholar or rat,

Minds books, when he has other dict.

But

* By BLACKMORE.

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