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Didst thou e'er strive (once more sincerely

say) With Friends and Wine to drive thy Cares


And have e'en these Endeavours prov'd in vain? Will neither Friends nor Wine remove thy

Pain ?
Dost thou sit pensive, full of Thought, repine,
And, in thy Turn, forget the circling Wine?

From hence a real Paffion you may prove,
For if Wine drowns your Flame, you do

not love. Art thou a tame, resign’d, submissive Swain? Canst thou bear Scorn, Repulses, and Dif

dain? Can no ill Treatment nor unkind Returns Quench the strong Flame, which in thy

Marrow burns ?
But do they rather aggravate thy Smart,
And give a quicker Edge to every Dart ?
Does not each scornful Look, or angry Jest
Drive the keen Passion deeper in thy Breast?
Do not her poignant Questions and Replies,
Thy partial Ears agreeably surprize?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,

For if you can resent, you do not love. Whole live-long Days you have enjoy'd her

Sight; Say, were your Eyes e'er fated with Delight?

you feel

Did not you

wish next Moment to return? Did not your Breast with stronger Ardours

Did not each View another View provoke ?

every Meeting give a deeper Stroke ?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,

For there is no Satiety in Love.
Perhaps you judge it an imprudent Flame,
And therefore live at Distance from the Dame;
But what is the Effect ? does Absence heal
Those Wounds, which smarting in her Sight,

Does not to her your Mind unbidden stray ?
Does not your Heart confess her distant Sway?
Does not each rising Thought inhance your

Pain ?
And don't you long to see her once again?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For that which Absence cancels is not

Suppose, once more, your Parents or your

Either for peevith or prudential Ends,
Should thwart thy Choice, thy promis'd Bliss

Would'st thou for her sengage all these thy

Would'st thou despise an angry Father's Frown,
And scorn the noisy Cenfures of the Town?

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Could'st thou, possess’d of her, with Patience

The Coxcomb's Finger pointed forth at thee?
Would it not vex you, as you pass along,
To hear the little Spleen of every Tongue ?
“ There goes the fond young Fool, who tother

66 In heedless Wedlock threw himself

away ;
“ And, to indulge the rafh ungovern'd Heat
« Of a vain Passion, loft a good Estate? -
Would not such Insults grate thy tender Ear?
Could'ft thou besides, without Compunction,

The scornful Smile and the disdainful Sneer?

From hence a real Passion you may prove,
For he, who loves with Reafon, does not

Still must I touch thee in a tend'rer Part;
Would not a happy Rival stab thy Heart?
Could'st thou behold the Darling of thy Breast
With Freedom by another Youth carest ?
Say, could'st thou to thy dearest Friend afford
A Kiss,. a Smile, or one obliging Word ?
Say, at the public Ball or private Dance,
When the brisk Couples artfully advance,
Could'st thou, unmov'd with Indignation, stand,
If to another she resign’d her Hand?
Would your Heart rest at Ease ? or would it

With all the Pains, the sharpest Pains of Hell ?


From hence a real Passion you may prove,

For, without Jealousy, you cannot love.
To the last Question of thy trusty Friend
(Tho'many more might still be ask'd) attend.
To purge her Virtue, or revenge her Wrongs,
(For Beauty is the Theme of busy Tongues)
Should Blood be call'd for in the doubtful

Would'st thou with Pleasure part with Blood

or Life?

Would'st thou all Dangers in her Cause despise,
And meet unequal Foes for such a Prize ?
Would it not plant new Courage in thy Heart,
And double Vigour to thy Arm impart ?
Toscreen thy Mistress from the slightest Harms,
Would'st thou not purchase Death, and would

not Death have Charms ?
From hence a real Passion you may prove,

For never yet was Coward known to love.
By these Prescriptions judge your inward

Put all these Questions closely to your Heart;
And if by them your Flame you can approve,
Then will I own that you sincerely love.

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The Cock and the Dove s.


Inscribed to a Friend.


N Farmer's Yard, one Summer's Day,

A Pair of Doves, like Nature gay, Sat Bill to Bill; with scornful Eye, And haughty Port, a Cock went by : He went, but soon return'd again, And twenty Hens compos'd his Train. He crow'd, and near the Doves he drew, And rang'd his Females full in View : The Doves, of all regardless still, Their Attitude was Bill to Bill; The Cock, impatient of the Sight, With humbled Vanity and Spight, Thus taunting, cry’d: Methinks all Day, • Two faithful Doves can bill and play! • If blest, indeed, as ye pretend, "Your Bliss is vast, and without End ! < But I'm convinc'd 'tis all Pretence, • Can one to one such Joys dispense? I, with a thousand Beauties bleft,

Caressing all, by all caress’d; « Not I can boast more Bliss than you, • If these pretended Joys are true : • Hence, with your ostentatious Loves, • I hate all hypocritic Doves.'

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