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Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
From your aggrieved bow-wow:
(Which I can hardly see,)
With verse address 'd to me!
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) A partnership of literary ware! But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays ; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequal'd birth!
But what his commentators' happiest praise ?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
June 29, 1793.
To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine
Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to
And in the first degree;
The press might sleep for me.
Of many a Grecian belle,
But never lodged so well.
ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, Whom all this elegance might well seduce ; Nor can our censure on the husband fall, Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,
And, steep'd not now in rain,
Will never fade again.
FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.
Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ;
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo ;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
Was still a wild Jack hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
Hic etiam jacet,
Et tecum sic reputa-
Et moriar ego.