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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.
Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near;
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.
As Blouzalinda, in a gamesome mood,
As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
† Very foon.
I quaintly* ftole a kifs; at firft, 'tis true,
Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear,
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
As at bot cockles once I laid me down,
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.
Across the fallen oak, the plank I laid,
This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canft, explain;
Anfwer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,
Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains ;
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.
The wretched Flavia on her couch reclin'd,
• 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;
For me the patriot has the house forfook,
Fir'd by one wifh, all did alike adore ;
As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
• Now on fome happier nymph your aid bestow
• Wou'd pitying heav'n reftore my wonted mein,
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;
• You shall again be well, again be fair;