Scarce any fhe quits unexplored With a diligence truly exact; Yet, steal what she may for her hoard, Leaves evidence none of the fact. Her lucrative task fhe pursues, And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the less. Not thus inoffenfively preys The canker-worm, in-dwelling foe! His voracity not thus allays The fparrow, the finch, or the crow. The worm, more expenfively fed, The pride of the garden devours; And birds peck the feed from the bed, Still lefs to be fpared than the flowers. But he with such delicate skill Her pillage fo fits for her ufe, That the chemist in vain with his ftill Would labour the like to produce. Then grudge not her temperate meals, Nor a benefit blame as a theft; Since, ftole fhe not all that she steals, Neither honey nor wax would be left. DENNER'S OLD WOMAN. N this mimic form of a matron in years, pears! The matron herself, in whofe old age we fee With locks like the riband with which they are While gloffy and smooth, and as soft as the skin Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view. The nymphs for themselves fcarcely hope a decline, Strange magic of art! which the youth can engage To peruse, half enamour'd, the features of age; And force from the virgin a figh of despair, That she when as old fhall be equally fair! How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain❜d. THE TEARS OF A PAINTER. PELLES, hearing that his boy Altho' the fight with anguish tore him, This tribute of a father's woe!" Thus far is well. But view again The deepest damask of the rose. Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done. THE MAZE. ROM right to left, and to and fro, And turn, and turn, and turn again, To folve the mystery, but in vain ; Herself could ferve you with a better. NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER. HE lover, in melodious verses, Yes! thousands have endured before THE SNAIL. O grafs, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, As if he grew there, house and all Together. Within that houfe fecure he hides, Of weather. Give but his horns the flightest touch, Displeasure. Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself has chattels none, Well fatisfied to be his own Whole treasure. |