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Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,
To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
UNWIN, I should but ill repay,
The kindness of a friend,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.
An union form'd, as mine with thee,
Not rafhly or in fport,
May be as fervent in degree,
The bud of peach or rose,
The ftock whereon it
With flow'r as fweet or fruit as fair,
As if produc'd by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,
Left this should prove the last. "Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Than ever blaz'd by art.