5 But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lycè shines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.

6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lycè makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.

* * * * *


ON THE DEATH OF MR ROBERT LEVETT,

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

1 Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

2 Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.

3 Yet still he fills Affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny