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Tho' wit might gild the tempting snare,
With softest accent, sweetest air,
By Envy's self admir'd;
If Lesbia's wit betray'd her scorn,
In vain might every grace adorn,
What every Muse inspir'd.
Thus airy Strephon turn'd his lyre
He scorn’d the pangs of wild desire,
Which love-fick swains endure :
Resolv'd to brave the keenest dart;
Since frowns could never wound his heart,
And smiles -muft ever cure.
But ah! how false these maxims prove,
How frail security from love,
Experience hourly shows!
Love can imagin'd smiles supply,
On every charming lip and eye
Eternal sweets bestows,
In vain we trust the Fair-one's eyes;
In vain the sage explores the skies,
To learn from stars his fate :
"Till led by fancy wide astray,
He finds no planet mark his way;
Convinc'd and wife
As partial to their words we prove;
Then boldly join the lists of love,
With towering hopes supply'd:
So heroes, taught by doubtful shrines,
Miftook their Deity's designs ;
Then took the field
Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi
TEAR bedews my Delia's eye,
To think yon playful kid must die ;
From crystal spring, and flowery mead,
Muft, in his prime of life, recede !
Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And, on the fearful margin, play.
Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the fight.
She tells with what delight he stood,
To trace his features in the food :
Then skip'd aloof with quaint amaze;
And then drew near, again to gaze.
See tells me, how with eager speed
He flew, to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the found.
His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.
But knows my Delia, timely wise,
How foon this blameless æra flies?
While violence and craft succeed;
Unfair design, and ruthless deed!
Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more;
Ah soon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.
No more those bow'rs might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee;
No more those beds of flow'rets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.
Each wayward passion foon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care ;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but infipid age, remain?
Then mourn not the decrees of fate,
his life fo short a date; And I will join thy tendereft fighs, To think that youth fo-swiftly flies!
LOVE SONGS, written between the Year 1737 and 1743. By the Same.
Told my nymph, I told her true,
My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faltering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove fincere.
Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,
And vagrant sheep that left my fold ;
Of these she heard, yet bore to hear;
And is not Flavia then fincere ?
How chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind,
She heard, and Ahed a generous tear ;
And is not Flavia then fincere?
How, if she deign'd my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress;
This too she heard, and smild to hear ;
And Flavia sure must be fincere.
Go fhear your flocks, ye jovial swains, ,
Go reap the plenty of your plains ;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.
SONG II. The LANDSKIP,
OW pleas’d within my native bowers
Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers ?
Were ever flowers fo gay?
How sweetly smild the hill, the vale,
And all the landskip round!
The river gliding down the dale!
The hill with beeches crown'd!
when urg'd by tender woes
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my
No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I fee :
That verdant hill, and filver stream,
Divide my love and
YEgentle nymphs and generous dames
Be sure ye soothe their amorous flames,
laws are not unkind.
For hard it is to wear their bloom
In unremitting fighs away:
To mourn the night's oppressive gloom,
And faintly bless the rising day.
And cruel 'twere a free-born fwain,
A British youth should vainly moan;
Who scornful of a tyrant's chain,
Submits to yours, and yours alone.