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I durft have sworn I lov'd before,
But what was all such grief or joy,
Yet think not, fairest, what I fing, Can from a love platonic spring; That formal softness (false and vain) Not of the heart, but of the brain. Thou art indeed above all nature; But I, a wretched human creature, Wanting thy gentle generous aid, Of husband, rivals, friends afraid ! Amidst all this seraphic fire, Am alınoft' dying with desire, With eager wishes, ardent thoughts, Prone to commit love's wildest faults ! And (as we are on Sundays told The lusty patriarch did of old) Would force a blessing from those charms, And grasp an angel in my arms.
SUNG ON THE STAGE,
BETWEEN AN ELDERLY SHEPHERD, AND
A VERY YOUNG NYMPH.
SHEPHERD. BRIGHT and blooming as the spring,
Universal love inspiring; All our swains thy praises fing,
Ever gazing and admiring.
Praises in fo high a strain,
And by such a shepherd sung, Are enough to make me vain,
Yet so harmless and so young.
I thould have despair'd among
Rivals that appear fo gayly:
Ν Υ Μ Ρ Η.
Are inconstant, wild, and bold; And your using me so kindly
Is a proof you are not old.
With thy pleasing voice and fashion,
With thy humour and thy youth, Chear my soul, and crown my passion : Oh! reward my love and truth.
Ν Υ Μ Ρ Η. With thy careful arts to cover
That which fools will count a fault, Truest friend as well as lover,
Oh! deserve so kind a thought. EACH APART FIRST, AND THEN BOTH TOGETHER. Happy we shall lie possessing,
Folded in each other's arms. Love and Nature's chiefest blessing
In the still increasing charms. So the dearest joys of loving,
Which scarce heaven can go beyond, We'll be every day improving,
SHEPHERD, You more fair, and I'more fond.
N Y M P H. I more fair, and you more fond.
On One who died discovering her Kindness,
O ME vex their souls with jealous pain,
While others sigh for cold disdain :
Of all mankind, I lov'd the best
scorn; But oh ! thus all at once to find That dread account! both dead and kind ! What heart can hold ! if yet I live, 'Tis but to shew how much I grieve.
ON LUCINDA'S DEATH.
That ever haunted guilty mind!
of love when it despairs,
No language, nothing can express,
That praises would but make her less.
Free Free from her sex's smallest faults,
And fair as womankind can be : Tender and warm as lover's thoughts,
Yet cold to all the world but me. Of all this nothing now remains, But only fighs and endless pains !
LADY RETIRING INTO A MONASTERY,
WHAT breast but yours can hold the double fire
Of fierce devotion, and of fond defie?
But shall fome threatening priest divide us two?
Heaven sees our passions with indulgence Pille