To Miss H—l—d. 1768

Count all the flow'rs that deck the meadow's side, When Flora flourishes in new-born pride; Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky; Count all the birds that thro' the aether sly; Count all the foliage of the lofty trees, That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze; Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass; Count all the drops of rain that softly pass Thro' the blue aether; or tempestuous roar; Count all the sands upon the breaking shore; Count all the minutes since the world began, Count all the troubles of the life of man; Count all the torments of the d—n'd in Hell, More are the beauteous charms that makes my Nymph excell.