Since, therefore, I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain
When making good wishes for her,
I will e'en to my wishes again—
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life—
How soon I can make her a mother.
June, 1792.
EPITAPH ON FOP,
A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim.
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chace—
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
"Yes,"—the indignant shade of Fop replies—
"And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies."
August, 1792.
SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS,
Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.
Romney, expert infallibly to trace
On chart or canvass, not the form alone
And semblance, but however faintly shown,
The mind's impression too on every face—
With strokes that time ought never to erase,
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.