CUDDY.

My brown Buxoma is the featest maid, That e'er at wake delightfome gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goofe's down, And like the goldfinch in her funday gown. The witlefs lamb may sport upon the plain, The frifking kid delight the gaping swain ; The wanton calf may fkip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play defteft* feats around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no fultry fummer's heat I know;
In winter, when the's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzalinda, eafe thy fwain's defire,
My fummer's fhadow, and my winter's fire!

CUDDY.

As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour feem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply fhe were gone, Like worky-days I wifh'd would foon be done. Eftfoons †, O fweet-heart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing flood,
I flily ran, and snatch'd a hafty kifs;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amifs.
Believe me Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

CUDDY.

As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger ftroak'd her milky care.

† Very foon.

* Nimbleft.

I quaintly* ftole a kifs; at firft, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I fwear, believe who will my vows,.
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
Of Irish fwains potatoes are the cheer;
Oats for their feafts the Scottish fhepherds grind,
Sweet turneps are the food of Blouzalind:
While fhe loves turneps, butter I'll defpife,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

CUDDY.

In good roaft-beef my land-lord sticks his knife, The capon fat, delights his dainty wife; Pudding our parfon eats, the 'fquire loves hare, But white-pot thick, is my Buxoma's fare. While fhe loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me. LOBBI BIN CLOUT.

As once I play'd at blind-man's-buff, it hapt
About my eyes, the towel thick was wrapt:
I mifs'd the fwains, and feiz'd on Blouzelind,
True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

CUDDY.

As at bot cockles once I laid me down,
And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;
Buxoma, gave a gentle tap, and I
Quick rofe, and read foft mifchief in her eye.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

On two near elms, the flacken'd cord I hung, Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda fwung: With the rude wind her rumpled garment rofe, And show'd her taper leg, and fcartlet hose.

• Waggishly.

CUDDY.

Across the fallen oak, the plank I laid,
And myfelf pois'd against the tott'ring maid:
High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell;
I fpy'd-but faithful sweet-hearts never tell.

LOBBIN CLOUT.

This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canft, explain;
This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry fwain :
What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name,
The richest metal joined with the fame ? *

CUDDY.

Anfwer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight:
What flow'r is that which royal honour craves ?
Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis firown on graves. †

CLODDIPOLE..

Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains ;
An oaken ftaff each merits for his pains.
But fee the fun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodges? barn.
Your herds for want of water ftand a-dry;
They're weary of your fongs- and fo am I.

To thefe we shall fubjoin the following eclogue, or foli loquy, written by a lady; which contains a proper lesson to those of her own fex, who are fo weak as to value themfelves on that fading flower, beauty; and feems intended to recommend fomething more estimable to their culture and confideration.--The ornaments of the mind are not fo eafily effaced as thofe of the body; and tho' beauty may captivate and fecure the affections for a time, yet a man of fenfe will never so much esteem a fine wife, as a wife one.

The SMALL-PO X. A Town Eclogue.
By the Right Hon. L. M. W. M.

The wretched Flavia on her couch reclin'd,
Thus breath'd the anguish of a wounded mind:
A glass revers'd in her right hand fhe bore,
For now the fhun'd the face the fought before.

• How am I chang'd? alas! how am I grown? A frightful spectre, to myself unknown!

Where's my complexion? where my radiant bloom, That promis'd happiness for years to come? Then with what pleasure I this face survey'd ; • To look once more, my vifits oft delay'd! ⚫ Charm'd with the view, a fresher red would rife, And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes!

Ah! faithlefs glafs, my wonted bloom restore;
Alas! I rave, that bloom is now no more!
The greatest good the gods on men bestow,
Ev'n youth itself to me is useless now.
There was a time (Oh! that I cou'd forget!)
When opera-tickets pour'd before my feet;
And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine,
The earliest cherries of the fpring were mine.
• Witness, O Lilly; and thou, Motteux, tell
How much japan these eyes have made ye fell.
With what contempt ye faw me oft despise
The humble offer of the raffled prize;
For at the raffle ftill each prize I bore,
With fcorn rejected, or with triumph wore !
Now beauty's fled, and prefents are no more!

For me the patriot has the house forfook,
And left debates to catch a paffing look:
For me the foldier has foft verses writ:
For me the beau has aim'd to be a wit.
For me the wit to nonfenfe was betray'd;
The gamefter has for me his dun delay'd,
And over-feen the card he would have play'd.
The bold and haughty by fuccefs made vain,
Aw'd by my eyes, have trembled to complain :
The bafhful 'fquire touch'd by a wish unknown,
Has dar'd to speak with spirit not his own;

C

Fir'd by one wifh, all did alike adore ;
Now beauty's filed, and lovers are no more!

As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
New unaffected fcenes of forrow rife!
Far from my fight that killing picture bear,
The face disfigure, and the canvas tear!
That picture, which with pride I us'd to show,
The loft refemblance but upbraids me now.
And thou, my toilette! where I oft have fate,
While hours unheeded pafs'd in deep debate,
How curls fhould fall, or where a patch to place,
If blue or fcarlet beft became my face;

·

• Now on fome happier nymph your aid bestow
• On fairer heads, ye ufelefs jewels, glow!
• No borrow'd luftre can my charms restore ;
Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more!
Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye fhine;
Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine;
But midft your triumphs with confufion know,
Tis to my ruin all your arms ye owe.

• Wou'd pitying heav'n reftore my wonted mein,
Ye ftill might move unthought of, and unfeen:
But oh! how vain, how wretched is the boast
Of beauty faded, and of empire loft!
• What now is left but weeping, to deplore

6

My beauty fled, and empire now no more! Ye, cruel chymifts, what with-held your aid? ⚫ Could no pomatums fave a trembling maid ? How falfe and trifling is that art ye boaft; No art can give me back my beauty loft! In tears, furrounded by my friends I lay, Mask'd o'er, and trembled at the fight of day; MIRMELIO came my fortune to deplore, (A golden-headed cane well carv'd he bore) • Cordials, he cry'd, my fpirits must restore! Beauty is filed, and spirit is no more!

·

GALEN, the grave; officious SQUIRT, was there, With fruitless grief, and unavailing care!

• Machaon too, the great Machaon, known

·

By his red cloak and his fuperior frown;
And why, he cry'd this grief and this defpair &

• You shall again be well, again be fair;