EPISTLE IX.

FROM

CELIA TO CLOE.

BY ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, ESQ.
F. R. S.

I RURAL life enjoy, the town's your taste,
In this we differ, twins in all the rest.

Yet when the dog-star brings diseases on,
And each fond mother trembles for her son;

Now when the Mall's forlorn, the beaux and belles
All for retirement crowd to Tunbridge-Wells;
Say, will not CLOE for awhile withdraw
From dear Vauxhall and charming Ranelagh?
Sure at this homely hut one may contrive
Awhile not only to exist, but live;

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For not dull landscapes here my thoughts engross, Woods, lawns, and rills, and grottoes green with

moss.

No, the same appetite that courts infuse,

Haunts in retreat, and to the shade pursues.
Here all my cares are to receive and pay
Visits, my studies a romance or play.
And then to pass the live-long Sunday off,
Walks or a ride, nay church serves well enough.

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At church, one has a chance to see cockades,
Lur'd thither in pursuit of country maids:
Or tall Hibernian smit with fond desire
To wed the only daughter of a squire.
Cards have their turn, to kill a tedious hour,
If baulk'd of whist, piquette is in my pow'r;
For oft the captain, fresh from town, bestows
A friendly week upon his friend my spouse.
Then gaily glide the days on downy feet,
For sure the captain has prodigious wit;
OI could hear his sweet discourse for ever,
Of all that's done, and who and who's together. 30
Oft far and wide for new delights I range,
True sex, and constant to the love of change.
Is there within ten miles a troop review'd,
An auction of old goods, an interlude
By strolling players, an horse-race, or a ball?
There to be seen I have an urgent call.
The labors of the plough are then forgot,
And THOMAS mounts the box in liv'ry coat.
Scenes odd as these, if Cloe can endure,

(And yet these scenes are town in miniature) 40 Come and reflect on Ranelagh with scorn,

Content ev'n here, at least 'till routs return.

EPISTLE X.

ΤΟ

MISS ANNE CONOLLY,

FROM

MISS COURTENAY.

MAY, 1753.

THO' kind your words-how full of sorrow! "Adieu! dear Bell-we part to-morrow!" Farewell! dear sister of my youth,

Ally'd by honor, love, and truth;
Farewell our visits, sports, and plays,
Sweet solace of our childish days;
Farewell our walks to Park and Mall,
Our jaunts to concert, route, or ball;
Farewell our dish of sprightly chat,
Of who said this-and who did that;
Critiques on scissars, needles, pins,
Fans, aigrettes, ribbands, capuchins,
Along farewell! Conolly flies

To distant suns, and diff'rent skies!

A Muse in tears moves slow and dull, How weak the head, the heart so full!

Slight sorrows find an easy vent,

And trifling cares are eloquent;
Sad silence only can express,
The genuine pains of deep distress;
Yet I cou'd rave in darken'd chamber
On seas of milk, and ships of amber,
Like frantic Belvidera, when is
Perform'd the tragedy of Venice
Preserv'd-Oh! as I hope to marry,
Cibber is parted from her Barry;
This by the by, may serve as news
Tomorrow on your way t'amuse,
It causes great, great speculation→→→
Part of the business of the nation.

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But hang digressions-to return; And must I three long winters mourn ? That tedious length spun out and past We meet-but how improv'd your taste? Your figure, manner, dress, and wit, With all things for a Lady fit; For, entre nous, my dear, our faces Should be the least of all our graces; If nought but Beauty wings the dart, We strike the eye, but miss the heart; But hush, and till we meet again, Pray keep this secret from the men: Should the weak things this truth discover, How few coquettes would keep a lover!

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And yet, so plain (tho' blind you know)
Milton could see it years ago:

Thus has the bard our sex attackt,
"Fair outward, inward less exact."
But you a strong exception stand,
With Wit and Beauty hand in hand,
Apart how weak! combin'd how strong!
They'll sweep whole ranks of hearts along ;
Before such pow'rs each foe will fly,

That principal, and this ally.

Lovers you then will slay in plenty,
Like Bobadil each day your twenty;

Then will you grow the topic common,

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"How soon, (they'll say) shot up a woman! "What eyes! what lips! how fine each feature ! "Fore gad!-a most delicious creature!" This from the beaux-Mean time each belle, in Mere spite, my dear, at your excelling, Stung to the heart and devilish jealous Of homage paid by pretty fellows. Shall flirt her fan, and toss, and snuff, And cry The thing is well enough"But for my soul, to say what's true t'ye, "I can't find out where lies her beauty." Mean time you smile with sweet disdain, Like Dian 'midst her meaner train.

Thus my prophetic soul foreknows What Time shall more anon disclose.