On one of her Eyes.

The orders giv'n, John saddles Grey;
 The nymph ascends: the pad so gay,
 First neighs his joy, then trots away. 
To that fam'd town the fair one rides,
 Where Nancy, harmless nymph! resides. 
That town so fam'd in Lent for figs,
 For custards, conventicles, eggs;
 Renown'd of old for scandal picking,
 For bottled cyder, and cold chicken. 
How often there have Oxford Smarts,
 Regal'd their nymphs on goosb'ry tarts! 
While Mrs. Mary at the Bear,
 Call'd all the chamber-maids to stare. 

Thither she rides, as authors say,
 To sip with Nancy harmless tea;
 And o'er their cups to have a fling
 At this, or t'other aukward thing:
 But with no other earthly view,
 Except to chat an hour or two. 

The sun had run thro' half his course,
 Ere Charlot ventur'd to take horse;
 And near th' horizon shot his ray,
 Ere she a second time mounts Grey. 

But, O dire fate! O sad mischance! 
The high-fed beast begins to prance;
 Shakes his curl'd neck, disdains the ground,
 And longs to scale yon quickset mound. 
She shrieks — in vain — she tumbles o'er! 
While heedless John jogg'd on before. 

Fie on the brute! and may'st thou bear
 No more the witty, or the fair;
 But doom'd the country round to stroll,
 With pedlar's pack, or beggar's trull. 

And here my muse, in mournful wise,
 Relate how Charlot weeps and sighs:
 Well might she weep, well might she sigh,
 For when she look'd, she miss'd an eye. 

So have I seen, in cloudless nights,
 The sky bedeck'd with radiant lights,
 Thus gleam and glitter from afar,
 Till in a jelly drops a star. 

Now John was set to search the ground;
 John search'd indeed, no eye was found. 
Explor'd each flow'r the fairies climb on,
 Careful as Indian slave for di'mond;
 But had he Argos 'hundred eyes,
 He'd ne'er discover where it lies. 

Some folks, 'tis true, believe 'twas hurl'd
 To multiply the starry world;
 And say, those babies in her eyes
 Inhabit now the azure skies. 
Whitesides, I'm told, was seen to stare
 Last night, with more than usual care;
 And has e'er since been plodding on it,
 From whence could come that glitt'ring planet;
 That star, that made there such a bustle,
 And Venus from her place would justle. 

Now this is only what folks guest;
 But trust the Muse, for she knows bost. 
Venus, the Charlot of the skies,
 Was always piqu'd at her bright eyes;
 And saw with pain, at Charlot's throne,
 Such crouds of vot'ries, not her own. 
For which good reason, when it dropt,
 The goddess stoop'd, and pick'd it up:
 And to repair the nymph's disgrace,
 Clapt her own orbit in the place.