And if the deign thy notes to hear,
And if she praise thy matin song,
Tell her the founds that foothe her ear
To Damon's native plains belong.

Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,

The bird from Indian groves may shine; But ask the lovely, partial maid,

What are his notes compar'd to thine?

Then bid her treat yon witless beau,
And all his flaunting race, with scorn,
And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
Who fings her praise, and fings forlorn.

"SIR, will you please to walk before?"
No, pray, Sir, you are next the door:
"Upon mine honour, I'll not stir!"
Sir, I'm at home; confider, Sir.

"Excuse me, Sir, I'll not go first." Well, if I must be rude, I mufi;

But yet I wish I could evade it;

'Tis ftrangely clownish-be perfuaded, &c. &c.
Go forward, cits! go forward, 'fquires!
Nor fcruple each, what each admires.
Life fquares not, friends, with your proceed-
ings;

It flies, while you display your breeding:
Such breeding as one's grannum preaches,
Or fome old dancing-mafter teaches.
Oh! for fome rude, tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or at least half mellow,
To come behind you, unawares,
And fairly push you both down ftairs!
But Death's at hand, let me advise ye,
Go forward, friends, or he'll furprise ye!

WRITTEN

WRITTEN AT AN INN.

TO thee, fair Freedom! I retire,

From flattery, feasting, dice, and din; Nor art thou found in domes much higher Than the low cot, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull Port to bright Champaign,
For Freedom crowns it-at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from ftate,
I fly from Falfehood's fpecious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And chufe my lodgings-at an inn.

And now once more I shape my way
Thro' rain or shine, thro' thick or thin,
Secure to meet, at close of day,

With kind reception-at an inn.

Whoe'er

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,

Where'er his various tour has been, May figh to think how oft he found His warmeft welcome-at an inn.

ཅིས་་་བས་ན་་་

RIDDLES.

HAVE you not known a small machine,
Which brazen rings environ,
In many a country chimney feen,
Yclep'd a tarring iron?

Its puzzling nature to display

Each idle clown may try, Sir;

Though, when he has acquir'd the way,
He's not a jot the wifer.

'Tis thus with him, who, fond of rhyme, In wit's low' fpecies piddles,

And tries his thoughts, and wastes his time, In explicating riddles.

Shall

Shall idle bards, by Fancy led,
(With wrathful zeal I fpeak it)
Write with design to plague my head,
Who have no right to break it?

་ཏེ་ཆོ་་་ར་ར་་

VALENTINE'S DAY.

THE tuneful choir in amorous ftrains
Accoft their feather'd loves,
While each fond mate with equal pains
The tender fuit approves.

With cheerful hope from spray to spray

They sport along the meads;

In focial blifs together stray,
Where love or fancy leads.

Thro' fpring's gay fcenes each happy pair
Their fluttering joys pursue,

Its various charms and produce fhare,

For ever kind and true.

Their