The lips of Julia.
Some ask’d how pearls did grow, and where;
Then spoke I to my girl
To part her lips, and shew them there
The quarrelets of pearl.’
Now this is making a petrefaction both of love and poetry.
His poems, from their number and size, are ‘like the motes that play in the sun’s beams;’ that glitter to the eye of fancy, but leave no distinct impression on the memory. The two best are a translation of Anacreon, and a successful and spirited imitation of him.
‘The Wounded Cupid.
Cupid, as he lay among
Roses, by a bee was stung.