IMPROMPTU LINES,

By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,

Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child

Exclaim'd,— “‘ Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing

Before a he-party to sit and to sing!”

“By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,”

Said a son of green Erin; “tho’ dear to my sight

Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear,

Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:

Tho’ you'd bribe us with songs, blood and‘ ounds! let me say,

I'd not be a woman for one in your way.”