An Epistle addressed to Miss Wn, in Answer to the above

Ye facred nine, with ease attune my lays, Or, wreathe my temples with one sprig of bays, To answer W***n's sweetly plaintive strain, That flows like Daulia's pipe upon the plain; With ev'ry sense true gratitude is join'd, In all the taste of elegance refin'd. Ah! could my feeble pen but write like thee, What joy, what rapture, would then glow in me; But feeble as it is,—do pray excuse, And take compassion on my tender muse, For she is young and stubborn you must know, And no harmonious sounds from her will flow. Accept then, madam, these unpolish'd lays, That's wrote to celebrate your verses' praise; But ah! they claim much better praise than mine; The words are flowing, and the language fine. I'll say no more, for fear you should complain, And think my simple praises somewhat vain, Tho' flattery's a thing, I must detest, Plain dealing, madam, surely is the best; And such by experience, I've found to bear The greatest sway amongst the prudent fair; Tho' flattery to some gives much delight, But to the prudent, 'tis disgusting quite; And sure to you it must obnoxious be, Or to any endu'd with sense like thee, For thou hast prudence, learning, and good skill, Senfe most refin'd, and wit at your own will, Where e'er you go, by ev'ry one caress'd, For gaudy pomp ne'er harbours in your breast, Nought but good-nature, gentility, and ease, In short, your company is sure to please; Whether thou art amongst the rich and great, Or whether 'mongst those of an humbler state, In these extremes, thou justly art admir'd, But ah! my seeble muse at length grows tir'd; For she, a sluggish jade, with all her arts, Can never paint, nor celebrate thy parts; Thy virtues are extravagantly great, Beyond a pen, like mine, for to relate; And of the gift I didst on thee bestow May in your breast each moral sentence glow, And while you read, may you the wiser grow. Thus I take leave, and let the curtain drop, My muse has left me, so of course must stop.