Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to _Pitt_, the patriot's _palm_ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

* * * * *


TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS
OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.


These locks which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine;
Than all th' unmeaning protestations,
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine.
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic.
Why should you weep like _Lydia Languish_,
And fret with self-created anguish.
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden.
For gardens seem by one consent
(Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;)