A FAMILIAR LETTER OF RHIMES
YES-I could rifle grove and bow'r
And ftrip the beds of every flow'r,
And deck them in their faireft hue,
Merely to be out-blush'd by you.
The lily pale, by my direction,
Should fight the rofe for your complexion;
Or I could make up fweeteft pofies,
Fit fragrance for the ladies' nofes,
Which drooping, on your breaft reclining,
Should all be withering, dying, pining,
Which every fongfter can display,
I've more authorities than GAY;
Nay, I could teach the globe its duty
To pay all homage to your beauty,
And, wit's creative pow'r to fhow,
The very fire fhould mix with fnow;
Your eyes, that brandifh burning darts
To fcorch and finge our tinder hearts,
Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,
And light them to their own undoing;
For those who rarely foar above
The art of coupling love and dove,
In their conceits and amorous fictions,
Are mighty fond of contradictions,
Above, in air; in earth, beneath;
And things that do, or do not breathe,
All have their parts, and separate place,
To paint the fair one's various grace.
Her cheek, her eye, her bofom fhow
The rofe, the lily, diamond, fnow.
Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountai
Stars, rubies, funs, and moffy fountains,
The poet gives them all a fhare
In the description of his fair.
She burns, the chills, the pierces hearts,
With locks, and bolts, and flames, and d
And could we truft th' extravagancy
Of every poet's youthful fancy,
They'd make each nymph they love fo w
As cold as fnow, as hot as
O gentle lady, fpare your fright;
No horrid rhime shall wound your fight.
I would not for the world be heard,
To utter such unseemly word,
Which the politer parfon fears
To mention to politer ears.
But, could a female form be shown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where every circumftance fhould meet
To make the poet's nymph compleat
Form'd to his fancy's utmost pitch,
She'd be as ugly as a witch.
Come then, O mufe, of trim conceit,
Mufe, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unfated ear
Of French or Tuscan SONNETEER,
Tak'ft up the fame unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in ditties quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or faint;
Whether thou dwell'ft on ev'ry grace,
Which lights the world from LAURA's face,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide
On beauties which the nymph muft hide;
For wit affected, loves to fhow
And wanton fancy oft pursues
Minute defcription from the mufe,
Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,
The poet's mortal nymph divine.
Her golden locks of claffic hair,
Are nets to catch the wanton air;
Her forehead ivory, and her eyes
Each a bright fun to light the fkies,
Orb'd in whofe centre, Cupid aims
His darts, protect us! tipt with flames;
While the fly god's unerring bow
Is the half circle of her brow.
Each lip a ruby, parting, fhews
The precious pearl in even rows,
And all the loves and graces fleek
Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.
Her breafts pure fnow, or white as milk,
Are ivory apples, smooth as filk,
Or elfe, as fancy trips on fafter,
Fine marble hills or alabaster.
A figure made of wax wou'd please More than an aggregate of thefe,
Which though they are of precious worth,
And held in great efteem on earth,
What are they, rightly understood,
Compar'd to real flesh and blood?
And I, who hate to act by rules
Of whining, rhiming, loving fools,
Can never twist my mind about
To find fuch strange resemblance out,
And fimile that's only fit
To fhew my plenteous lack of wit.
Therefore, omitting flames and darts,
Wounds, fighs and tears, and bleeding hearts,
Obeying, what I here declare,
Makes half my happiness, the Fair,
The favourite fubject I purfue,
And write, as who would not, for you.
Perhaps my mufe, a common curse, Errs in the manner of her verse, Which, flouching in the doggrel lay, Goes tittup all her easy way.
Yesan Acroftic had been better,
Where each good-natured prattling letter,
Though it conceal the writer's aim,
Tells all the world his lady's name.
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