Verses, sent with some Ornaments for the Hair, to Miss Margaret Knowles

Nymph, for the giver’s sake, thy tresses bind
With these slight tokens of her wishes kind,
Mix’d with her praise for having dared disarm
The dread contagion of its power to harm,
Furrow the cheeks, and blast their rising bloom,
Or prove the loathsome escort to the tomb.
Now, blithe as morning larks, thy steps shall stray,
Fearless, tho’ beauty’s demon cross thy way.
His fell effluvia, when it loads the gale,
Thy rosy breath untainted may inhale,
And waft thy pious gratitude to Heaven,
Who with the bane, the antidote has given.