No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And drefs thy grave with pearly dew!
IV.
The red-breast oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
V.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts shake the fylvan cell :
Or 'midst the chace on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee fhall dwell.
VI.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's felf be dead.
KILL'D in each art, that can adorn the fair,
The spritely dance, the foft Italian air,
The tofs of quality, and high-bred fleer,
Now lady Harriot reach'd her fifteenth year.
Wing'd with diverfions all her moments flew,
Each, as it pafs'd, presenting something new;
Breakfasts, and auctions wear the morn away,
Each evening gives an opera, or a play;
Then Brag's eternal joys all night remain,
And kindly usher in the morn again.
For love no time has fhe, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this fhe liftens to each fop that's near,
T'embroider'd colonel flatters with a fneer,
And the cropt enfign nuzzles in her ear.
But with most warmth her drefs and airs inspire
Th' ambitious bofom of the landed 'fquire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms,
For wither'd lean right honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her facred shrine,
And treats her as if fprung from race divine,
Which she returns with insolence and scorn,
Nor deigns to smile on a plebeian born.
Ere long by friends, by cards, and lovers crofs'd,
Her fortune, health, and reputation loft;
Her money gone, yet not a tradesman paid,
Her fame, yet she still damn'd to be a maid,
Her fpirits fink, her nerves are fo unftrung,
She weeps, if but a handsome thief is hung:
By mercers, lacemen, mantua-makers prefs'd,
But most for ready cash for play distress'd,
Where can she turn?-the 'fquire must all repair,
She condefcends to listen to his pray'r,
And marries him at length in mere despair.
But foon th' endearments of a husband cloy,
Her foul, her frame incapable of joy :
She feels no tranfports in the bridal bed,
Of which so oft fh' has heard, fo much has read;
Then vex'd, that she should be condemn'd alone
To feek in vain this philofophick stone,
'To abler tutors fhe refolves t' apply,
A proflitute from curiofity:
Hence men of ev'ry fort, and ev'ry fize,
Impatient for heav'n's cordial drop, fhe tries;
The fribbling beau, the rough unwieldy clown,
The ruddy templar newly on the town,
Th' Hibernian captain of gigantick make,
The brimful parfon, and th' exhausted rake.
But ftill malignant Fate her with denies,
Cards yield fuperior joys, to cards she flies;
All night from rout to rout her chairmen run,
Again fhe plays, and is again undone.
Behold her now in Ruin's frightful jaws!
Bonds, judgments, executions ope their paws;
Seize jewels, furniture, and plate, nor fpare
The gilded chariot, or the toffel'd chair,
For lonely feat she's forc'd to quit the town,
And Tubbs conveys the wretched exile down.
Now rumbling o'er the flones of Tyburn-road,
Ne'er prefs'd with a more griev'd or guilty load.
She bids adieu to all the well-known ftreets,
And envies ev'ry cinder-wench fhe meets:
And now the dreaded country first appears,
With fighs unfeign'd the dying noife the hears
Of diftant coaches fainter by degrees,
Then starts, and trembles at the fight of trees.
Silent and fullen, like fome captive queen,
She's drawn along, unwilling to be seen,
Until at length appears the ruin'd hall
Within the grafs-green moat, and ivy'd wall,
The doleful prison where for ever she,
But not, alas! her griefs, must bury'd be.
Her coach the curate and the tradesmen meet,
Great-coated tenants her arrival greet,
And boys with ftubble bonfires light the street,
While bells her ears with tongues discordant grate,
Types of the nuptial tyes they celebrate :
But no rejoycings can unbend her brow,
Nor deigns fhe to return one aukward bow,
But bounces in difdaining once to speak,
And wipes the trickling tear from off her cheek.
Now fee her in the fad decline of life,
A peevish mistress, and a fulky wife;
Her nerves unbrac'd, her faded cheek grown pale
With many a real, many a fancy'd ail;
Of cards, admirers, equipage bereft,
Her infolence, and title only left;
Severely humbled to her one-horse chair,
And the low paftimes of a country fair:
Too wretched to endure one lonely day,
Too proud one friendly visit to repay,
Too indolent to read, too criminal to pray.
At length half dead, half mad, and quite confin'd,
Shunning, and fhunn'd by all of human kind,
Ev'n robb'd of the last comfort of her life,
Infulting the poor curate's callous wife,
Pride, difappointed pride, now ftops her breath,
And with true fcorpion rage the ftings herself to death.
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