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[P. WHITEHEAD.]

As s Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just

praise, And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays : So, would Daphne but smile, their example I'd

follow, And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo : But alas ! while no smiles from the fair one inspire,

[lyre ! How languid my strains, and how tuneless my

Go, zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest numbers my passion commend;
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend,

For sure, oh ye winds, ye may tell her my pain, 'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.

Wherever I go, or whatever I do,
Still something presents the fair nymph to my view:
If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose :

But with her neither lily nor rose can compare ;
For sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.

If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove, The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my The nightingale too with impertinent noise, (love; Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice :

[brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale

sings.

If forsaking the groves, I fly to the court,
Where beauty and splendour united resort,
Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or' in Brudenel's bright
eye ;

Cappear? But, alas! what would Brudenel or Richmond Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but

there.

If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain,
And dwell over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain ;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind :

Like Lydia, or Chloe, would Daphne but prove,
Like Horace or Ovid I'd sing and I'd love.

1

THE IVY.

[Way, translator of the Fabliaux.]

How

ow yonder ivy courts the oak, And clips it with a false embrace ! So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

How fain the tree would swell its rind !

But, vainly trying, it decays,
So fares it with my shackled mind,

So wastes the vigour of my days.
And soon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

A lass, forlorn for lack of grace,

My kindly pity first did move ; And in a little moment's space,

This pity did engender love. | And now my death must prove,

I

guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

For now she rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain ; Whilst by a strange enchantment struck,

My nobler will recoils in vain.
And soon my death will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,

The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin’d in want and woe : Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

[MOORE.]

When

EN Damon languish'd at my feet, And I beheld him true, The moments of delight how sweet!

But ah! how swift they flew ! The sunny bill, the flow'ry vale,

The garden and the grove Have echoed to his ardent tale,

And vows of endless love.

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize, 4

He left her to complain,
To talk of joy with weeping eyes,

And measure timely pain.
But heaven will take the mourner's part

In pity to despair ;
And the last sigh that rends the heart

Shall waft the spirit there.,

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FROM anxious zeal and factious strife,
From all the uneasy cares of life,
From beauty still to merit blind,
And still to fools and coxcombs kind ;
To where the woods in brightest green,
Like rising theatres are seen,
Where gently murm’ring runs the rill,
And draws fresh streams from ev'ry hill;

Where Philomel in mournful strains
Like me of hopeless love complains,
Retir'd I pass the livelong day,
And idly trifle life away :

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