THE MILKMAID. WHOE'ER for pleasure plans a scheme, Will find it vanish like a dream, And when the thoughts on evil pore, Thus while the mind the future sees, Is Pleasure's scheme the point in view; How eagerly we all pursue! Well-Tuesday is th' appointed day; How slowly wears the time away! How dull the interval between, How darken'd o'er with clouds of spleen, Did not the mind unlock her treasure, And fancy feed on promis'd pleasure. DELIA surveys, with curious eyes, The clouds collected in the skies; Wishes no storm may rend the air, And Tuesday may be dry and fair; And I look round, my boys, and pray, That Tuesday may be holiday. Things duly settled-what remains? Lo! Tuesday comes-alas! it rains; And all our visionary schemes Have died away, like golden dreams. Once on a time, a rustic dame, (No matter for the lady's name) Wrapt up in deep imagination, Indulg'd her pleasing contemplation; While on a bench she took her seat, And plac'd the milk-pail at her feet, Oft in her hand she chink'd the pence, The profits which arose from thence; While fond ideas fill'd her brain, Of layings up, and monstrous gain, Till every penny which she told, Creative fancy turn'd to gold; And reasoning thus from computation, She spoke aloud her meditation. "Please Heav'n but to preserve my health, "No doubt I shall have store of wealth; "It must of consequence ensue "I shall have store of lovers too. "Oh! how I'll break their stubborn hearts, "With all the pride of female arts. "What Suitors then will kneel before me! "Lords, Earls, and Viscounts, shall adore me. "When in my gilded coach I ride, "My Lady at his Lordship's side, "How will I laugh at all I meet "Clatt'ring in pattens down the street! "And LOBBIN then I'll mind no more, "Howe'er I lov'd him heretofore; "Or, if he talks of plighted truth, "I will not hear the simple youth, "But rise indignant from my seat, "And spurn the lubber from my feet." Action, alas! the speaker's grace, G Thus fancy ever loves to roam, To bring the gay materials home; Imagination forms the dream, And accident destroys the scheme. THE CANDLE AND SNUFFERS. A FABLE. "No author ever spar'd a brother: Which acts so fiercely, lasts so long The critic comes, and cuts the string; "Twixt man of verse, and man of prose; Turns executioner of whim; |