Sonnet.

SONNET.

THE wise, thro' time, have join'd to say That bliss on earthly ground, To mix, and deep, with some allay, Will soon or late be found.

Yet, once I strove by fancy's aid To dress, and call it mine; A joy that nothing here could shade, It seem'd so near divine.

I every generous virtue sought; And plac'd them in a heart With noble feelings finely fraught, Devoid of pride or art.

I form'd a head, few such have been, No gaudy sepulchre; Which, if the poor contents were shewn, But few would wish it near.

Rich treasures there, in memory's store, Bid Taste and Learning place; With Judgment to collect still more, And brilliant Wit to grace.

These with a pleasing form I crown'd, Sure tis offence to no man; My sex I own I wish'd renown'd, And call'd my charm a woman.

But blessings dress'd by fancy's light, I fear'd must fleet away; Till Clara shone upon my sight, And bid my vision stay.

Oh Clara! such a charm as thee, But one way finds to grieve me; And that, my Clara, cannot be, That thou shouldst wish to leave me.