On Chloris
Requesting me to give her a Spring of Blossomed Thorn.
From the white-blossom’d sloe my dear Chloris requested A sprig, her fair breast to adorn: No, by Heavens! I exclaim’d, let me perish, if ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!
On Seeing Mrs. Kemble In Yarico
Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief For Moses and his rod; At Yarico’s sweet nor of grief The rock with tears had flow’d.
Epigram On A Country Laird,
not quite so wise as Solomon.