Where—e’er you go, some Actions s… Which make the Goodness of your M… Hibernia early saw those Seeds of… In your fair Breast, which now sh… Foresaw the Hopes you gave, matur…

You us’d me ill, and I withdrew, Intent on satirizing you. The Muses to my Aid I call; They came; and told me, one and al… That I mistook their Province qui…

To Day, as at my Glass I stood, To set my Head—cloaths, and my Ho… I saw my grizzled Locks with Drea… And call’d to mind the Gorgon’s H… Thought I, whate’er the Poets say…

Contented in my humble State, I look with Pity on the Great; Who only Birth, or Wealth, respec… And treat true Merit with neglect… O Pow’r supreme! let me implore

Ye gentle Beaux, and thoughtless… Who gaily rove at Tunbridge—Wells… With Pockets full; and empty Look… Raffling for ev’ry Toy—but Books: Should Addison’s immortal Page

Since Phoebus makes your Verse di… Since the God glows in ev’ry Line… Why should you think, but I, with… Might write my native, artless La… My Mother told me many a Time,

Let me the Honour soon obtain, For which I long have hop’d in va… Since I, alas! am now confin’d, Your Visit would be doubly kind. What Sorrows have I not to fear,

WHAT is it our mamma’s bewitches… To plague us little boys with bree… To tyrant Custom we must yield, Whilst vanquish’d Reason flies th… Our legs must suffer by ligation,

The Picture strikes—'tis drawn wi… Well has the Poet play’d the Pain… Tho’ ’tis your Glory, yet, my Lor… I grieve the Features fit yoursel… But know, tho’ All agree the Pict…

Obrian, were in Story told, Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old: In fair Hibernia’s Isle they reig… A Country, by their Sons disdain’… Too apt to charge their Native Is…

In vain you shew a happy Nation, The Gospel’s gracious Dispensatio… And plead from thence, to bring up… To early Piety and Truth. To unattentive Ears you preach,

A wretch, in smoaky Dublin pent, Who rarely sees the Firmament, You graciously invite, to view The Sun’s enliv’ning Rays with yo… To change the Town for flow’ry Me…

Eternal King, is there one Hour, To make me greatly bless’d? When shall I have it in my Pow’r To succour the Distress’d? In vain, alas! my Heart o’erflows

OUR master, in a fatal hour, Brought in this Rod, to shew his… O dreadful birch! O baleful tree! Thou instrument of tyranny! Thou deadly damp to youthful joys!

Books, Pictures, Statues, here we… And each excelling in their Kind. Mead’s Taste in ev’ry Thing we vi… But chiefly in his Choice of You.