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Didft thou e'er strive (once more fincerely fay)

With Friends and Wine to drive thy Cares away?

And have e'en these Endeavours prov'd in vain? Will neither Friends nor Wine remove thy Pain?

Doft thou fit penfive, full of Thought, repine, And, in thy Turn, forget the circling Wine? From hence a real Paffion you may prove, For if Wine drowns your Flame, you do not love.

Art thou a tame, refign'd, fubmiffive Swain? Canft thou bear Scorn, Repulfes, and Difdain?

Can no ill Treatment nor unkind Returns
Quench the strong Flame, which in thy
Marrow burns?

But do they rather aggravate thy Smart,
And give a quicker Edge to every Dart?
Does not each fcornful Look, or angry Jeft
Drive the keen Paffion deeper in thy Breaft?
Do not her poignant Questions and Replies,
Thy partial Ears agreeably furprize?

From hence a real Paffion you may prove, For if you can refent, you do not love. Whole live-long Days you have enjoy'd her Sight;

Say, were your Eyes e'er fated with Delight?

Did not you wish next Moment to return? Did not your Breaft with ftronger Ardours burn?

Did not each View another View provoke ?
And every Meeting give a deeper Stroke?

From hence a real Paffion you may prove,
For there is no Satiety in Love.

Perhaps you judge it an imprudent Flame, And therefore live at Distance from the Dame; But what is the Effect? does Abfence heal Those Wounds, which smarting in her Sight, you feel?

Does not to her your Mind unbidden stray? Does not your Heart confefs her diftant Sway? Does not each rifing Thought inhance your


And don't you long to fee her once again?
From hence a real Paffion you may prove,
For that which Abfence cancels is not

Suppose, once more, your Parents or your

Either for peevish or prudential Ends,

Should thwart thy Choice, thy promis'd Bliss


Would'ff thou for her engage all these thy Foes?

Would'st thou defpife an angry Father's Frown, And scorn the noify Cenfures of the Town?


Could't thou, poffefs'd of her, with Patience


The Coxcomb's Finger pointed forth at thee?
Would it not vex you, as you pass along,
To hear the little Spleen of every Tongue?
"There goes the fond young Fool, who t'other

"In heedlefs Wedlock threw himself away; “And, to indulge the rafh ungovern'd Heat "Of a vain Paffion, loft a good Estate?Would not fuch Infults grate thy tender Ear?Could'ft thou befides, without Compunction, bear

The fcornful Smile and the difdainful Sneer? From hence a real Paffion you may prove, For he, who loves with Reafon, does not love.

Still muft I touch thee in a tend'rer Part; Would not a happy Rival stab thy Heart? Could'st thou behold the Darling of thy Breaft With Freedom by another Youth carest? Say, could'ft thou to thy dearest Friend afford A Kiss, a Smile, or one obliging Word? Say, at the public Ball or private Dance, When the brisk Couples artfully advance, Could'ft thou, unmov'd with Indignation, stand, If to another she refign'd her Hand? Would your Heart reft at Ease? or would it


With all the Pains, the sharpest Pains of Hell? From

From hence a real Paffion you may prove, For, without Jealoufy, you cannot love. To the last Question of thy trusty Friend (Tho' many more might still be ask'd) attend. To purge her Virtue, or revenge her Wrongs, (For Beauty is the Theme of busy Tongues) Should Blood be call'd for in the doubtful Strife,

Would'ft thou with Pleasure part with Bloodor Life?

Would'st thou all Dangers in her Cause despise,
And meet unequal Foes for fuch a Prize?
Would it not plant new Courage in thy Heart,
And double Vigour to thy Arm impart ?
To fcreen thy Mistress from the flightest Harms,
Would'st thou not purchase Death, and would
not Death have Charms ?

From hence a real Paffion you may prove,
For never yet was Coward known to love.
By these Prescriptions judge your inward

Put all these Questions closely to your Heart; And if by them your Flame you can approve, Then will I own that you fincerely love.


The Cock and the DoVES.


Infcribed to a Friend.

N Farmer's Yard, one Summer's Day,


A Pair of Doves, like Nature gay, Sat Bill to Bill; with scornful Eye, And haughty Port, a Cock went by : He went, but foon return'd again, And twenty Hens compos'd his Train. He crow'd, and near the Doves he drew, And rang'd his Females full in View: The Doves, of all regardless ftill, Their Attitude was Bill to Bill; The Cock, impatient of the Sight, With humbled Vanity and Spight,


Thus taunting, cry'd: Methinks all Day,
• Two faithful Doves can bill and play!
If bleft, indeed, as ye pretend,

• Your Bliss is vast, and without End!
But I'm convinc'd 'tis all Pretence,
• Can one to one fuch Joys difpenfe?
I, with a thoufand Beauties bleft,
Careffing all, by all carefs'd;

• Not I can boast more Bliss than you,
• If these pretended Joys are true:
• Hence, with your oftentatious Loves,
• I hate all hypocritic Doves,'

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