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A heart as soft, a heart as kind,

A heart as sound and free

As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honour thy decree;

Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree;

Or bid me die, and I will dare
E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.



GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower, that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But, being spent, the worse; and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And, while ye may, go marry:
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.


WHEN Fanny, blooming fair,
First caught my ravish'd sight,
Struck with her shape and air,
I felt a strange delight:
Whilst eagerly I gazed,

Admiring every part,
And every feature praised,
She stole into my heart.
In her bewitching eyes

Ten thousand loves appear; There Cupid basking lies,

His shafts are hoarded there : Her blooming cheeks are dyed With colour all their own, Excelling far the pride

Of roses newly blown.

Her well turn'd limbs confess
The lucky hand of Jove;
Her features all express

The beauteous queen of love;


What flames my nerves invade
When I behold the breast
Of that too charming maid
Rise, suing to be press'd!

Venus round Fanny's waist

Has her own Cestus bound, With guardian Cupids graced,

Who dance the circle round.
How happy must he be

Who shall her zone unloose!
That bliss to all but me
May heaven and she refuse.



DRIED be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Not Season's day nor Fate shall prove
More fix'd, more true than I!
Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.

Dost ask how long my vows shall stay
When all that's new is pass'd?
How long, my Delia? can I say
How long my life will last?
Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.

And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he who only breathes for you

Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here.




I HAVE a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart!

This cherish'd woe, this loved despair,
My lot for ever be;

So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!

And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
When my poor wasted, trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak-

I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,
Nor mercy ask for me;
My soul despairs to be forgiven,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.


IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL. YES, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid Whom in days of my childhood I knew; All night she would weep in the cold willow shade, And her tears mingle warm with the dew! I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclined 'Mid the willows all dripping and chill,

I have heard her exclaim while she shrunk in 'In pity, fond bosom, lie still!' [the wind, The youth whom she loved had been torn from

By a fate too severely unkind, [her arms Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms,

And clouded the beams of her mind! Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine, And I feel in my heart that they will; Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine, In pity, fond bosom, lie still!'




WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,


High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you, Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no! I own it would please me, at home would you Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go; [tarry, But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry, Shall I blame your departure? Oh! no, my love, no!


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