Зображення сторінки

My lyre to tender accents strung,
I tell each slight, each scorn and wrong,
Then reason to my aid I call,
Review past scenes, and scorn them all.

Superior thoughts my mind engage,
Allur'd by Newton's tempting page,
Through new-found worlds I wing my flight,
And trace the glorious source of light:
But should Clarinda there appear,
With all her charms of shape and air,
How frail my fixt resolves would prove,
Again I'd yield, again I'd love.


HY heaves my fond bosom ? ah what can it

mean! Why flutters my heart that was once so serene? Why this sighing and trembling when Daphne is

near ? Or why, when she's absent, this sorrow and fear?


Forever, methinks, I with wonder could trace
The thousand soft charms that embellish your face.
Each moment I view thee, new beauties I find;
With thy face I am charm’d, but enslav'd by thy


Untainted by folly, unsullied by pride,
There native good humour and virtue reside.
Pray heaven that virtue thy soul may supply [die.
With compassion for him, who, without thee must


ELL me, Damon, dost thou languish

With a slow, consuming fire;
Melting still in speechless anguish,

For the maid thou dost admire ?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Flying, dost thou still pursue her?

Absent, does she haunt thy dream?
Present, dost thou ceaseless woo her?

Is her worth thy only theme?

If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Does each rival's merit grieve thee?

Whilst in health, dost thou complain? Can no halm but love relieve thee?

None but Celia ease thy pain? If thy heart such passion prove, Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Canst thou view each bright perfection

In her mind, and in her face? Does each fault escape detection,

Ev'ry blemish seem a grace? If thy heart such passion prove, Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Then in love if there be pleasure,

Unallay'd by care or pain, Venus shall confer the treasure

On her true devoted swain. Venus shall thy suit approve; Shepherd, thou dost truly love.


(Bishop of Chichester.]


LL me not bow fair she is,
I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near :
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate
From whence no triumph ever came,

But to repent too late :
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence doat myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame, So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame : Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice.



E virgin powers ! defend my heart

From amorous looks and smiles, From saucy love, or nicer art,

Which most our sex beguiles.

From sighs, from vows, from awful fears,

That do to pity move ; From speaking-silence, and from tears,

Those springs that water love,

But, if through passion I grow blind,

Let honour be my guide;
And where frail nature seems inclin'd,

There place a guard of pride.

A heart whose flames are seen, tho' pure,

Needs ev'ry virtue's aid, And those who think themselves secure,

The soonest are betray'd.

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