What hopes, what terrours, does thy gift create! 
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate! 
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign’d by Venus to Melissa’s hand)
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects, a lover’s pray’r. 
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain. 
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers’ heads,
Th’ unhappy lovers’ graves the myrtle spreads. 
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart. 
Soon must this bough, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander’s head, or grace his tomb.

[a] These verses were first printed in the Gentleman’s Magazine for
    1768, p. 439, but were written many years earlier.  Elegant as they
    are, Dr. Johnson assured me, they were composed in the short space
    of five minutes.—­N.

TO LADY FIREBRACE[a]. 
AT BURY ASSIZES.

At length, must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown’d in B—­n’s deathless strain? 
Thy charms, at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;
For, such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem’st at once, bright nymph, a muse and grace.

[a] This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, esq. of
    Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, esq. of that town.  She became
    the second wife of sir Cordell Firebrace, the last baronet of that
    name, to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000 pounds, July 26, 1737. 
    Being again left a widow, in 1759, she was a third time married,
    April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, esq. uncle to the late duke of
    Argyle, and died July 3, 1782.

TO LYCE, AN ELDERLY LADY.

Ye nymphs, whom starry rays invest,
By flatt’ring poets given;
Who shine, by lavish lovers drest,
In all the pomp of heaven;

Engross not all the beams on high,
  Which gild a lover’s lays;
But, as your sister of the sky,
  Let Lyce share the praise.

Her silver locks display the moon,
  Her brows a cloudy show,
Strip’d rainbows round her eyes are seen,
  And show’rs from either flow.

Her teeth the night with darkness dies,
  She’s starr’d with pimples o’er;
Her tongue, like nimble lightning, plies,
  And can with thunder roar.

But some Zelinda, while I sing,
  Denies my Lyce shines;
And all the pens of Cupid’s wing
  Attack my gentle lines.

Yet, spite of fair Zelinda’s eye,
  And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
  And I but flatter less.

ON THE DEATH OF
MR. ROBERT LEVET[a],
A PRACTISER IN PHYSICK.

Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine,
  As on we toil, from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
  Our social comforts drop away.