To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper.

Let me the Honour soon obtain,
For which I long have hop'd in vain;
Since I, alas! am now confin'd,
Your Visit would be doubly kind.
What Sorrows have I not to fear,
Ty'd to the Bed of Sickness here?
When all that's human, quits the Place,
And Winter shews his horrid Face;
Whilst Desolation proudly stalks
Along the dull, deserted Walks.
Methinks the Skies already lour;
Loud, from the Hills, the Torrents pour;
The Shops are shut; the Days are dark;
And scarce a Dog is left to bark.
O, shield me from the dreadful Storms,
Which my distemper'd Fancy forms!
The thoughtless Fair the Toilet prize,
There practise Smiles, and point their Eyes:
But Cowper, negligent of Art,
Chose, early wise, the better Part.
Yet from your Mind some Moments spare;
The Stranger be a--while your Care,
Who now beneath Affliction bends,
Far from her Country, and her Friends.
Come, and my anxious Heart relieve:
For in your Presence who could grieve?