Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like
In sad complaint of ill-requited love,
So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike
Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,
And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
TO A LADY,
WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.
Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse
The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie:
For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse