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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,
How plainly the pencil of Denner ap-

pears!

The matron herself, in whofe old age we fee
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is fhe!
No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low,
No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on the brow!
Her forehead indeed is here circled around

With locks like the riband with which they are
bound;
1;

While gloffy and smooth, and as soft as the skin
Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin;
But nothing unpleasant, or fad, or severe,
Or that indicates life in its winter-is here.
Yet all is exprefs'd with fidelity due,

Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view.
Many fond of new fights, or who cherish a taste
For the labours of art, to the spectacle haste.
The youths all agree, that could old age infpire
The paffion of love, hers would kindle the fire,
And the matrons with pleasure confess that they see
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee.

The nymphs for themselves fcarcely hope a decline,
O wonderful woman! as placid as thine.

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
Had juft expired—his only joy!

Altho' the fight with anguish tore him,
Bade place his dear remains before him.
He feized his brush, his colours fpread;
And-" Oh! my child, accept," he said,
('Tis all that I can now bestow,)

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This tribute of a father's woe!"
Then, faithful to the twofold part,
Both of his feelings and his art,
He closed his eyes with tender care,
And form'd at once a fellow pair.
His brow with amber locks befet,
And lips he drew not livid yet;
And fhaded all that he had done
To a juft image of his fon.

Thus far is well. But view again
The cause of thy paternal pain!
Thy melancholy task fulfil!
It needs the laft, laft touches ftill.
Again his pencil's powers he tries,
For on his lips a smile he spies:
And ftill his cheek unfaded fhows

The deepest damask of the rose.
Then, heedful to the finish'd whole,
With fondeft eagerness he ftole,
Till scarce himself distinctly knew
The cherub copied from the true.

Now, painter, cease! Thy task is done.
Long lives this image of thy fon;
Nor short lived shall the glory prove
Or of thy labour or thy love.

THE MAZE.

ROM right to left, and to and fro,
Caught in a labyrinth you go,

And turn, and turn, and turn again,

To folve the mystery, but in vain ;
Stand ftill, and breathe, and take from me
A clue, that foon fhall fet you free!
Not Ariadne, if you meet her,

Herself could ferve you with a better.
You enter'd eafily-find where—
And make with ease your exit there!

NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE

SUFFERER.

HE lover, in melodious verses,
His fingular distress rehearses.
Still clofing with a rueful cry,
"Was ever fuch a wretch as I?"

Yes! thousands have endured before
All thy distress; fome, haply, more.
Unnumber'd Corydons complain,
And Strephons, of the like disdain;
And if thy Chloe be of steel,
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that cenfure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.

THE SNAIL.

O grafs, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The Snail sticks clofe, nor fears to fall,

As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that houfe fecure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of ftorm, or other harm befides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the flightest touch,
His felf-collecting power is fuch,
He fhrinks into his house with much

Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,

Except himself has chattels none,

Well fatisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

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