While many heavy fetters bind,
And press upon my languid mind,
Oh! tell her not to doubt my love!
Affection still her hold shall keep,
Although her weary servants sleep.

Friendship to me is like a flower,
Yielding a balm for human woe,
I less than ever could forego;
More prized, more needed every hour!
Perchance it dies for want of care,
But as it withers, I despair!




XII.

_To the late Lady Rouse Boughton_.


'Tis said, that jealous of a name
We all would praise confine,
And choke the leading path to fame
In our peculiar line.

But vainly should detraction preach
If once I made it known,
The art of pleasing thou would'st teach
Acknowledg'd for thy own.