RHYMES
to
the
Hon.
Miss
LOVELACE
;
now
Lady
HENRY
BEAUCLERK
.
On
her
attending
Miss
CHARLOT
CLAYTON
In
the
SMALL-POX
.
O
Thou
!
to
whom
the
Muse
is
justly
dear
,
In
Fancy
elegant
,
in
Judgment
clear
,
In
whom
the
Virtues
with
the
Graces
blend
The
faultless
Female
,
and
the
faithful
Friend
;
A
while
suspend
the
Taste
improv'd
by
Art
,
And
take
the
Lay
spontaneous
from
the
Heart
.
Fantastic
Females
!
ye
who
paint
,
and
prate
Of
self
,
or
somewhat
,
or
of
God
knows
what
!
Who
mimic
every
thing
but
what
ye
should
,
And
even
Virtue
,
to
be
reckon'd
good
;
Alas
!
no
varnish
can
that
want
supply
,
No
specious
talk
conceal
the
acted
lye
.
While
you
on
trifles
waste
the
tedious
day
,
And
dress
,
or
dream
your
useless
hours
away
;
Or
worse
,
indulge
the
very
crime
you
blame
,
Plot
the
dark
scandal
,
or
disperse
the
shame
:
She
on
her
Friend
attends
with
pious
care
,
Sooths
all
her
griefs
,
and
softens
ev'ry
fear
;
That
higher
sense
indulging
,
void
of
art
,
The
virtuous
feeling
of
a
gen'rous
heart
;
And
finds
self-love
attain
its
noblest
end
,
When
it
transfers
from
Self
to
serve
a
Friend
.
How
few
for
Friendship
Nature
has
design'd
!
Th'
unmelting
temper
,
and
th'
unmeaning
mind
,
The
crafty
,
selfish
,
dark
,
perfidious
,
see
!
O
sacred
Friendship
!
all
unworthy
Thee
.
Where
then
shall
she
,
whose
native
manners
start
Beyond
the
narrow
bounds
of
low-bred
art
,
Whose
soul
is
open
,
as
her
purpose
clear
,
Foe
to
evasion
,
as
of
heart
sincere
;
Not
too
familiar
,
nor
yet
too
precise
,
With
humour
witty
,
with
politeness
wife
;
Where
find
a
Friend
to
bear
the
equal
part
?
Say
,
Charlot
,
where
?
if
not
within
thy
heart
.
Yet
Thou
,
whose
worth
might
sweeter
sounds
inspire
,
Indulge
these
efforts
of
a
youthful
lyre
:
No
flatt'ring
purpose
has
the
Muse
in
view
,
Tho'
prompt
to
praise
,
wherever
Praise
is
due
;
Averse
to
flatter
,
cautious
to
commend
,
Hardly
she
sooths
the
frailties
of
a
Friend
.
But
sick
of
the
insipid
senseless
train
,
For
Thee
she
feels
the
animated
strain
:
O
be
she
sacred
to
the
wife
and
good
!
Nor
prostitute
her
praises
to
the
croud
;
With
whom
less
pleas'd
than
pain'd
,
her
lyre
unstrung
,
Upon
a
neighb'ring
willow
useless
hung
;
Till
gentle
deeds
,
and
corresponding
Love
Impell'd
the
sympathetic
strings
to
move
To
Nature's
harmony
;
while
artless
lays
,
To
Her
and
Lovelace
tun'd
,
grow
music
in
their
praise
.