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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,
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
Or bid it languish quite away,
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Or bid me die, and I will dare
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
SONG TO THE VIRGINS.
GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
And this same flower, that smiles to-day,
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The sooner will his race be run,
That age is best which is the first,
Then be not coy, but use your time;
WHEN Fanny, blooming fair,
Admiring every part,
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 beauteous queen of love;
What flames my nerves invade
Venus round Fanny's waist
Has her own Cestus bound, With guardian Cupids graced,
Who dance the circle round.
Who shall her zone unloose!
EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.
DRIED be that tear, my gentlest love,
Dost ask how long my vows shall stay
And does that thought affect thee too,
Must yield that faithful breath?
I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
This cherish'd woe, this loved despair,
So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
And when pale characters of death
I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,
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!