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December 1742.


KITTY, crown'd with Loves and Graces,
Why to me this am'rous art?

Why to me these fond embraces,

While another has your

Tho' a moment's inclination,


May a transient joy impart;

Can I hope for lasting passion,

While another has your heart.

Kitty Walker was kept by the Earl of Loudon; but probably it was not he who had her heart. I believe this and other verses following was really addressed to Mrs. Woffington, the actress, with whom Sir Charles was in love, and who was in love with Mr. Garrick. One day, that Sir Charles taxed her with having been with the latter, though she promised to see him no more, she vowed she had not seen him for ages. "Nay," said Sir Charles, "I know you saw him yesterday, "Well,” replied she, "is not that an age."-W.

O, that I could gain it wholly,
For I scorn to take a part;

But to think of that were folly,

For another has your heart.

'Tis no longer your's to give me,

Kitty, at those words you start; And durst you hope you could deceive me, While another has your heart.

In my breast thy beauteous face is,

Grav'd by Cupid's powerful dart; But from thence I'll blot those traces, Since another has your heart.

Gods, how jealous torments move me, Oh, what anguish, and what smart; None on earth like me can love thee,

Tho' another has your heart.

1 ΤΟ


IF when the breast is rent with pain,

It be no crime, the nymph should know it; O Woffington accept the strain,

Pity! though you'll not cure the poet.

Should you reject my ardent prayer,
Yet send not back the am'rous paper;
My pangs may help to curl your hair,
My passion fringe the glowing taper.

No more the Theatre I seek,

But when I'm promised there to find
All Horton's merits now grow weak,
And Clive remains far far behind you.

'Tis thus the polished pebble plays,
And gains awhile some vulgar praises;
But soon withdraws its feeble rays,

When the superior diamond blazes.


Who sees you shine in Wildair's part,
But sudden feels his bosom panting?
Your very sex receive the dart,

And almost think there's nothing wanting.




ONCE more I'll tune my vocal shell,
To hills and dales my passion tell,
A flame which time can never quell,
That burns for lovely Peggy.

Ye greater bards the lyre should hit,
For say what subject is more fit,
Than to record the sparkling wit,

And bloom of lovely Peggy.


The sun first rising in the morn,

That paints the dew-bespangled thorn,

Does not so much the day adorn,

As does my lovely Peggy.

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