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While blooming youth and gay delight

Sit on thy rosy cheeks confess'd, Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right

To triumph o'er this destined breast. My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain, For I was born to love, and thou to reign.

But would you meanly thus rely
On

power you know I must obey ? Exert a legal tyranny,

And do an ill because you may?
Still must I thee, as Atheists Heaven adore,
Not see thy mercy, and yet dread thy power?
Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace;

As well as Cupid, Time is blind;
Soon must those glories of thy face

The fate of vulgar beauty find : The thousand Loves that arm thy potent eye, Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.

Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown

A hateful wrinkle more appears ; And putting peevish humours on, Seems but the sad effect of

years : Kindness itself too weak a charm will

prove, To raise the feeble fires of aged love.

Forced compliments, and formal bows,

Will show thee just above neglect;
The heat with which thy lover glows,

Will settle into cold respect.
A talking, dull, Platonic I shall turn:
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn.

Then shun the ill, and know, my dear,

Kindness and constancy will prove The only pillars fit to bear

So vast a weight as that of love: If thou canst wish to make my flames endure, Thine must be very fierce, and very pure. Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites;

Obey kind Cupid's present voice;
Fill every sense with soft delights,

And give thy soul a loose to joys:
Let millions of repeated blisses prove,
That thou all kindness art, and I all love.

Be mine, and only mine; take care

Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams, to guide To me alone; nor come so far

As liking any youth beside : What men e’er court thee, fly them, and believe They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.

So shall I court thy dearest truth,

When beauty ceases to engage;
So thinking on thy charming youth,

I'll love it o'er again in age:
So Time itself our raptures shall improve,
While still we wake to joy, and live to love.

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WHILE from our looks, fair Nymph, you guess

The secret passions of our mind ; My heavy eyes, you say, confess

A heart to love and grief inclined.
There needs, alas! but little art

To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,

'Tis certain you may show the wound. How can I see you and not love,

While you, as opening East, are fair? While cold, as northern blasts, you prove,

How can I love and not despair?
The wretch in double fetters bound

Your potent mercy may release :
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,

Fair Prophetess, my grief would cease.

TO A LADY,

SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME,

AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.
SPARE, generous Victor, spare the slave

Who did unequal war pursue,
That more than triumph he might have,

In being overcome by you.
In the dispute, whate'er I said

My heart was by my tongue belied, And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,

Might have sustain'd an open fight; For seldom your opinions err;

Your eyes are always in the right. Why, fair-one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd? Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired :
To keep the beauteous foe in view

Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd, And, arm’d with more immediate power,

Calls cruel silence to her aid. Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;

She drops her arms, to gain the field; Secures her conquest by her flight,

And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turn'd his steed, And from the hostile

camp

withdrew, With cruel skill the backward reed

He sent; and, as he fled, he slew.

The merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow'd name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure,

But Chloe, is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,

Upon Euphelia's toilet lay, When Chloe noted her desire

That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix
my

soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blush'd; Euphelia frown'd:

I sung and gazed; I play'd and trembled : And Venus, to the Loves around,

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

PRESENTED TO THE KING,

ON HIS MAJESTY'S ARRIVAL IN HOLLAND, AFTER THE

QUEEN'S DEATH, 1695.

Qais desiderio sit pador, aut modus
Tam cari capitis ? præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene,

At Mary's tomb (sad, sacred place !)

The Virtues shall their vigils keep; And every Muse, and every Grace,

In solemn state shall ever weep.
The future pious, mournful fair,

Oft as the rolling years return,
With fragrant wreaths and flowing hair,

Shall visit her distinguish'd urn.

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