TO JOSEPH DENNIE, ESQ.

DEAR DENNIE,

I SUBMIT the propriety of collecting the poetick trifles, which you mention, entirely to your own judgment; notwithstanding my assurance, that you will suffer it, in this instance, as you do in every thing which affects their author, to be biassed by your friendship. It wears no favourable appearance to have scribbled so many verses; but there are hours, in which the mind is in such a half active, half listless state, that if we have no friend by us to interest, nor book to amuse, it will recline

itself upon any thing, rather than bear "the pains and penalties of idleness." At such times, and when, as Dr. YOUNG says,

Perhaps a title had my fancy hit,

Or a quaint motto, which I thought had wit,

the most of them were written. If you really think them worthy of publication, they should have some very modest title; perhaps Sketches in Verse might do, as they are, at best, but a kind of chalk drawings. Your favourite, HORACE, could supply a motto, in the two last lines of his first Ode to Asinius Pollio, omitting the Dionaeo sub antro.

To the publication of the volume, however, I will consent only on the condition that it be addressed to you, as a trifling mark of my affection.

R. H. R.

SKETCHES IN VERSE.

THE STYLE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY

IMITATED.

If heavenlie beautye may thy passion move,
If gentle courtesie can charme thy mynde,
Let not thine eyes e'er stray to her I love;

O liste not to her wordes moste swete and kynde!
Though swete and kynde her wordes, and voide

of arte,

Yet colde Indifference dwelleth in her hearte.

Dost thou admire a looke both bryghte and meke? The starre of eve beames in her modeste eye: Lov'st thou the rose?-'tis on her blushynge

cheke,

And lendes its honied fragrance to her sigh.
Alas! that she should sigh my payne to see,
Yet still escape from Love's captivity!

Where, where can I, to shunne the archer's aime, Flie from those charmes that have my peace undonne?

To Wisdome's page?-No! Wisdome fannes my

flame,

And Vertue sayes, thy JANE and I are one-
Ah me! that hopelesse I am doomde to pyne,

To see those swetes, yet may not call them myne!

OBERON TO TITANIA.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlip and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine,
With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine;
There sleeps Titania, some time of the night,
Lull'd in those flowers with dances and delight.
Midsummer-Night's Dream.

THE humblebee hath homeward sped,

Long since, to rest from toil till morn; The merry bat hath left his bed,

The shard-borne beetle blown his horn.

Bright Phoebe now, in solemn state,
Casts her light mantle on the grove,

Where elfin bands expecting wait

To hail the festal rites of love.