And with an archness most bewitching
(Her naive simplicity enriching),
She wonders where a maid might buy than,
And begs to be allow'd to try them.

With secret scorn, but smiling bland,
He yields them to her curious hand,
When, instant, twang! the arrow flew,
So just her aim, it pierced him through,
Right through his heart, the luckless lad!
(A heart, to do him right, he had);
All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish,
Through many an hour to pine and languish,
And what made all his pangs more bitter,
Off flew the damsel in a titter.
Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree,
Cries out, "you've always laughed at me--
Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir!
'Tis not so safe to laugh at her."



LINES

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Presented to Mrs. D---- T----.


Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead,