Now deep in afhes finks the myrtle bow'r, } The LIN K. A BALLAD. E ladies that live in the city or town, YE Fair Winton or Alresford fo fine and fo gay; Come away ftrait to Ovington, for you can't think Look how lovely the profpect, the meadows how green, How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky, And the blood circles brifkly, and glows in your face: Wou'd you paint your fair cheeks with the rofe and the pink ǹ Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link. After dinner the 'fquire ere the ladies retreat, Marches off with fome friends that will ply the brisk glass ; Gives us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat, Not fo gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall, And when nought can be heard but the rude water-fall; But, ye fair maidens, be fure have a care, Of the hour and the place and the season beware, And guard well each paffage that leads to your heart; Sly Cupid will steal in at fome little chink, If you walk in the evening too late on the Link. Ye poets fo lofty, who love to retire From the noise of the town to the ftream and the wood; Utter founds by mere mortals not well understood: Here mouthe your loud ftrain, and here ply pen and ink, Quit Parnaffus and Pindus, and come to the Link. And And come you, who for thought are at little expence, You fee with smooth numbers, and not too much fenfe, And the rhime at the clofe how it falls with a clink, In the feventh Canto of the Legend of Chastity, in Spenfer's Fairy Queen, the Squire of Dames tells Satyrane, that by order of his mistress Columbel (after having ferved the ladies for a year) he was fent out a fecond time, not to return till he could find three hundred women incapable of yielding to any temptation. The bad fuccefs he met with in the courfe of the three years, which is flightly touch'd upon by Spenfer, is the foundation of the following poem. H 3 PRO H PROLOGUE, I. ARD is the heart that never knew to love, Ne felt the pleafing anguish of defire. Ye British maids, more fair than Venus' dove, Adopt me, nymphs, receive me in your quire, Who doth for court his annual fong prepare: Think not because I write of Columbel I thence would blast the sex with impious tale; Did fuck the poifon from her Edward's wound, III. See the fair fwans on Thamis' lovely tide, The which do trim their pennons filver bright, Then Then caft thy looks with wonder and delight, To you, bright ftars, that sparkle on our iflę, V. Should you confent, I'll quit my fhepherd's grey, |