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Poems upon several Occasions.
Eternal Draughts will not suffice,
Ah give me, give me more, she cries,
'Tis all too little Measure.
Thus wisely she makes up for Time
Mis-spent, while Youth was in its Prime:
So Travellers who waste the Day
Careful and cautious of their Way,
Noting at length the setting Sun,
They mend their Pace at Night comes on,
Double their Speed to reach their Inn,
And whip and spur thro' thick and thin.
BELINDA.
BElinda's Pride's an arrant Cheat,
A foolish Artifice to blind;
Some honest Glance, that scorns Deceit,
Does still reveal her native Mind.
With Look demure, and forc'd Disdain,
She idly acts the Saint;
We see thro' this Disguise, as plain
As we distinguish Paint.
The Pains she takes are vainly meant
To hide her amorous Heart,
