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I dream, but I no longer find
Your form ftill prefent to my view;
I wake, but now my vacant mind
No longer waking dreams of you.

Abfent, for you, no more I pine,

But wander careless day or night; Prefent, no word, no look, no fign, Argues disturbance or delight.

I hear your praife, no tender flame
Now thrills refponfive through my veins ;

No indignation, only shame,

For all my former wrongs remains.

I meet you now without alarms,
Nor longer fearful to displease,
I talk with ease about your charms,
E'en with my rival talk with ease.

Whether in angry mood you rife,

Or fweetly fit with placid guile, Vain is the lightning of your eyes,

And vainer ftill your gilded smile.

Loves, in your smiles, no longer play;
Your lips, your tongue, have loft their art;
Thofe eyes have now forgot the way

That led directly to my heart.






Whether with grief the mind's diseased,
Or the unburthen'd spirits glad ;
No thanks to you, when I am pleased,
You have no blame, when I am fad.

Hills, woods, and lawns, and bleating flocks, 45
Without you, captivate me ftill,

But dreary moors and naked rocks,
Tho' with you, make my blood run chill.

Hear me; and judge if I'm fincere ;
That you are beauteous ftill I fwear;
But oh! no longer you appear
The faireft, and the only fair.

Hear me; but let not truth offend,

In that fine form, in many places,
I now spy faults, my lovely friend,
Which I mistook before for graces.

And yet, tho' free, I thought at first,
With shame my weakness I confefs,
My agonizing heart would burk,

The agonies of death are lefs.

Who would not, when his foul's opprefs'd,
Gladly poffefs himself again?

To pluck a ferpent from his breast,
Who would not bear the fharpeft pain?




The little fongfter thus you fee

Caught in the cruel school boy's toils, Struggling for life, at laft, like me, Escapes, and leaves his feather'd spoils.

His plumage foon resumes its gloss,

His little heart foon waxes gay;
Nor falls, grown cautious from his lofs,
To artifice again a prey.

Perhaps you think I only feign,

I do but strive against the stream; Elfe why for ever in this strain ?

Why talk upon no other theme?

It is not love, it is not pique,

That gives my whole difcourfe this caft; 'Tis nature, that delights to speak Eternally of dangers paft.

Caroufing o'er the midnight bowl

The foldier never ceafing prates, Shews every fcar to every foul,

And every hair-breadth 'fcape relates.






Thus the poor galley flave, released

From pains as great and bonds as strong, On his past sufferings feems to feast,

And hug the chain he dragg'd fo long.

To talk is all that I defire;
When once I let my

larum go,

I never ftop, nor once enquire
Whether you're entertain'd' or no.


Which of us has most cause to grieve?
Which fituation would you choose ?

I, a capricious tyrant leave,

And you, a faithful lover lose.

I can find maids in every rout,

With fmiles as falfe, and forms as fine; But you must search the world throughout, To find a heart as true as mine.

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IN filent horror o'er the boundless wafte
The driver Haffan with his camels paft:
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light fcrip contain'd a fcanty store ;
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from fcorching fand.
The fultry fan had gain'd the middle sky,
And not a tree, and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts, with pain, their dufty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view! 10
With defperate forrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice figh'd, thrice ftruck his breaft, and thus began:
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
"When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"


Ah! little thought I of the blafting wind, 15 The thirst, or pinching hunger that I find! Bethink thee, Haffan, where fhall Thirft affwage, When fails this cruife, his unrelenting rage?

Born 1720; dyed 1756.

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