Pretty fondlings of the fair, 



Gentle damsels' gentle care ; 



But to one alone impart 



All the flattery of thy art. 



Crowd each feature, crowd each grace, 



Which complete the desperate face ; 



Let the spotted wanton dame 



Feel a new resistless flame ! 



Let the happiest of his race 



Win the fair to his embrace. 



But in shade the rest conceal, 



Nor to sight their joys reveal, 



Lest the pencil and the Muse 



Loose desires and thoughts infuse. 



Jonathan Swift. 



An Elegy on a Lap-Dog <^ *o *^. 



CHOCK'S fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no 

 ^ more, 



Ye Muses mourn, ye chamber-maids deplore. 

 Unhappy Shock ! yet more unhappy Fair, 

 Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care ! 

 Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, 

 And tie the fav'rite ribband round his neck ; 

 No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, 

 And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. 

 Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid ; 



60 



