So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,
And every joy, which now is yours,
Extend a larger sphere!
And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless
With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!
1762.
FROM
A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.
Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.
Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company—pray do but note 'em—
You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
Or at least would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.
My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;
There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.
Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging,
The box in reply was heard plainly to say,
What a silly dispute is this we are waging!
If you have a little of merit to claim,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed,
And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The before-mention'd drug in apology plead.