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CUPID's PASTIME.

AN OLD SONNET.

T chanc'd of late a fhepherd fwain,

I That went to feek his ftraying theep,

Within a thicket on a plain

Efpied a dainty nymph afleep.

Her golden hair o'erfpread her face;
Her carelefs arms abroad were caft;
Her quiver had her pillow's place;
Her breaft lay bare to every blast.

The fhepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durft he do; nought durst he say;

Whilft chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.

The crafty boy thus fees her fleep,

Whom if the wak'd he durft not fee; Behind her clofely feeks to creep,

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There come, he fteals her fhafts away,

And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere fhe wakes, hies thence apace.

Scarce

Scarce was he gone, but the awakes,
And spies the fhepherd ftanding by ;
Her bended bow in hafte she takes,
And at the fimple swain lets flye.

Forth flew the fhaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain;

Yet up again forthwith he ftart,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amazed to fee fo ftrange a fight,

She shot, and fhot, but all in vain ;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded ftrength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, fhe blames her skill;
The bluntnefs of her fhafts fhe fears,

And try them on herself fhe will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart:
Alas! thou know'ft not Cupid's craft;
Revenge is joy, the end is fmart.

Yet try fhe will, and pierce fome bare;
Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breaft fo rare,
That made the fhepherd fenfeless stand,

That

That breast she pierc'd ; and through that breast

Love found an entry to her heart;
At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start,

She runs not now ; she shoots no more ;

Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She seeks for what the fhunn'd before,

She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
What other lovers do, did they :

The god of love sat on a tree,
And laught that pleasant fight to fee.

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AS

S near Porto-Bello lying

On the gentle swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying

Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon fate all-glorious

From the Spaniards' late defeat :
And his crews, with shouts victorious,

Drank success to England's fleet:
On a sudden frilly founding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ;
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghofts appear'd,

7

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All

All in dreary hammocks fhrouded,
Which for winding-fheets they wore,
And with looks by forrow clouded
Frowning on that hoftile fhore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the fhade of Hofier brave
His pale bands was feen to mufter,
Rifing from their watry grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hy'd him,
Where the Burford rear'd her fail,
With three thousand ghosts befides him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.

Heed, O heed, our fatal ftory,
I am Hofier's injur'd ghost,
You, who now have purchas'd glory,
At this place where I was loft;
Tho' in Porto-Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears,
When
you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

See thefe mournful spectres sweeping

Ghaftly o'er this hated wave,

Whofe wan cheeks are ftain'd with weeping;

Thefe were English captains brave:

Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Thofe were once my failors bold,

Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his difmal tale is told.

I, by twenty fail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended But my

orders not to fight: O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion

To have quell'd the pride of Spain;

For refiftance I could fear none,

But with twenty fhips had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon,

Haft atchiev'd with fix alone. Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour feen, Nor the sea the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,

And her galleons leading home,
Though condemn’d for disobeying,

I had met a traitor's doom,
To have fallen, my country crying

He has play'd an English part,
Had been better far than dying

Of a griev'd and broken heart. Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our fad story,

And let Hofier's wrongs prevail.

Sent

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