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INDER

Patch. .
Early this morn-(but I was ask'd to come)
I drank bohea in Cælia's dressing-room :
Warm from her bed, to me alone within,
Her night-gown fasten’d with a single pin ;
Her night-cloaths tumbled with resistless grace,
And her bright hair play'd careless round her face;
Reaching the kettle made her gown unpin,
She wore ng waistcoat, and her shift was thin,

SILLIANDER.
See Titiana driving to the park !
Hark! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark;
In her all beauties of the spring are seen,
Her cheeks are rosy, and her mantle green,

Patch.
See TINTORETTA to the opera goes !
Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows;
In her the glory of the heav'ns we view,
Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue,

SILLIANDER.
What colour does in Cælla's stockings shine ?
Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine.

PATCH

PATCH.
What are her garters ? tell me if you can ;
I'll freely own thee far the happier man.

Thus Patch continued his heroic strain,
While Silliander but contends in vain,
After a conquest so important gain’d,
Unrivald Patch in every ruelle reign'd.

GIAND

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'REPHO

NCIND

“N O , fair Dancinda, no ; you strive in vain
" To calm my care, and mitigate my pain ;
“ If all my fighs, my cares, can fail to move,
“ Ah! sooth me not with fruitless vows of love."
Thus STREPHON spoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd:
What must I do to gratify your pride ?
Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art)
How much you triumph in this tender heart :
What proof of love remains for me to grant ?
Yet still you tease me with some new complaint.

Oh! Oh! would to heav'n!--but the fond wish is vain Too many favours had not made it plain! But such a passion breaks through all disguise, , Love reddens on my cheek, and wishes in my eyes. Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind!) I own the secret conflict of my mind; You cannot know what secret pain I prove, When I with burning blushes own I love. You see my artless joy at your approach, I sigh, I faint, I tremble at your touch; And in your absence all the world I shun; I hate mankind, and curse the chearing sun. Still as I Aly, ten thousand fwains pursue; Ten thousand swains I facrifice to you. I shew you all my heart without disguise : But these are tender proofs that you despise I see too well what wishes you pursue ; You would not only conquer, but undo: You, cruel victor, weary of your flame, Would seek a cure in my eternal same; And not content my honour to subdue, Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too. Oh! Love, a god indeed to woman kind, Whose arrows burn me, and whofe fetters bind,

Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame,
And blast these traitors that profane thy name ;
Who by pretending to thy facred fire,
Raise cursed trophies to impure desire.

Have you forgot with what ensnaring art You first seduc'd this fond uncautious heart? Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry, “ Turn, cruel beauty; whither would you Ay? “ Why all these doubts? why this distrustful fear? “ No impious wishes shall offend your ear : “ Nor ever shall my boldest hopes prétend “ Above the title of a tender friend; s Blest, if my lovely goddess will permit . “ My humble vows, thus fighing at her feet. “ The tyrant Love that in my bosom reigns, “ The god himself submits to wear your chains. “ You shall direct his course, his ardour tame, “ And check the fury of his wildest fame.”.

Unpractis'd youth is easily deceivd;
Sooth’d by such founds, I listen’d and believ'd ;
Now quite forgot that soft submissive fear,
You dare to ask what I must blush to hear.

Could I forget the honour of my race,
And meet your wishes, fearlefs of disgrace ;

Could

Could passion o'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail;
Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be,
Falfe as it is, for ever dear to me)
This fatal proof of love I would not give,
Which you'd contemn the moment you receive..
The wretched the, who yields to guilty joys,
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas’d, I then should see you shun
The wretched victim by your arts undone.
Yet if I could that cold indifference bear,
What more would strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection would my foul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel fcorn.

“ Has love no pleasures free from guilt or fear? “ Pleasures less fierce, more lasting, more sincere? “ Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze, “ Love is a child, and like a child it plays.”

O STRephon, if you would continue just,
If love: be something more than brutal lufte
Forbear to ask what I must still deny,
This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy,
So closely follow'd by the dismal train
Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain.

: . She

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