“Yet lest the sudden change we shou’d reprove,
“These Lines He sent us from Britannia’s shore.
“What time in Transport lost the Naïad Throng,
“First catch’d their Akenside’s enchanting Lay,
“And raptur’d Fancy listen’d to the Song
“Of laurel’d Whitehead, and sweet-plaintive Gray.”
The Letter.
A Vestal Fair (Her Name I mayn’t unfold)
Has planted in my Breast the pleasing Dart;
Who by relentless vows, if not controll’d,