Miss A. to MIss D.

HOW I pity the Vulgar, shut out from the

Ton,

Who can write and converfe in no tongue but their own!

By the Ton, I mean thofe, who, comme vous et moi,

Ont un gout decidé pour le fe ne fcai quoi ;
Cet objet fuyant, cette delicatesse,

Which our barbarous language wants th' art to express.

Our language, I hate it, admits no suspense, Sans detour, et fans grace, goes direct to the Sense;

But the French, au contraire, is fo happily wrought,

That we're charm'd with the Phrafe, while we doubt of the Thought:

I have read, and it well may be fo, that we meet In each Language the stamp of the national wit; So that Gallic, or Gothic, to follow this plan, Will apply just alike to the Phrase and the Man.

It is pleasant enough-did I fay? 'tis divineTo fee John in his Airs, when he wishes to

fhine:

He advances, he bows-how he points out a leg, With his head as erect as if fix'd on a peg; Now the Compliment-O! fo embarrass'd, fo queer,

Whilst he doubts how to praife, 't has th' effect of a fneer.

Not fo-le Galant elevé à Paris,

De bon air, degagé, par les Graces conduit-
He approaches, fecure in the power to please,
All he fays, all he does, fays and does with
fuch ease,

Though perhaps he thinks more of himself

than of

you,

His expreffion's fo neat, and the manner fo

new,

That your heart, quite content with the joy it receives,

Eft d'accord he fhould share in the pleasure he gives.

But, le bon fens Anglois is diftinctive-what

ftuff!

On fe joue poliment de l'efprit philofophe:

They

They who grant it to us know 'tis nothing but phlegm,

And are very well pleas'd we deny it to them. Of th' extremes, I declare for a French Etourdi, Il eft fou, dira-t-on-Il m'amuse-fuffit ;

What a fpirited Rattle! il est toujours dans l'air; 'Tis the flight of a fwallow-up, down, here

and there

Now he skims o'er the furface, now dips at a fly,

Now he wings him aloft, and is loft in the sky. To conclude, for I see we shall never have done, Should I fuffer my Mufe at her pleasure to

run

-Mais, belas, ma chere D, I've a thing to difclofe :

Though I dote on this language, can speak it, compofe,

Yet I never could get the right twang through the nose.

In the hope that at last I may bring this to pass, Pour l'amour du Francois, fouffre que Je t'embraffe.

POST

POSTSCRIPT.

LET me beg you to quit, in your answer to

mine,

Our heroic, of fyllables ten to a line.

For the French, as you know, employ twelveDo but try,

And you'll find that you'll write them as freely as I.

What will please you, this Verfe comes as easy as profe,

And the Thought of itself finds a chime in the

clofe ;

And 'tis much to my taste that the Rhyme fhould appear

The refult of the Senfe, not the choice of the Ear

But, however you write, or whatever you do, Be affur'd, my fweet Friend, que Je fuis toute

à vous.

ΟΝ

ON A

RED-BREAST

WORKED IN EMBROIDERY BY A LADY.

H

E lives-he's almoft on the wing

To meet his abfent Wife*:

Or, is it that he means to fing

The Hand that gave him life?

On fending the above to an ingenious Friend, the following was returned:

"TIS life: he's almoft on the wing

To meet his abfent Mate

Or, means he to the Fair to fing,
Who thus could life create?

In prefenting this amendment to my Reader, I do but imitate the candor that proposed it

to me

"Non ita certandi cupidus, quam propter "amorem."

Uxorem. -PLINY.