I durft have fworn I lov'd before,
And fancy'd all the danger o'er;
Had felt the pangs of jealous pain,
And borne the blafts of cold difdain;
Then reap'd at length the mighty gains,
That full reward of all our pains!

But what was all fuch grief or joy, That did my heedlefs ears employ? Mere dreams of feign'd fantastic powers, But the difeafe of idle hours; Amusement, humour, affectation, Compar'd with this fublimer paffion, Whofe raptures, bright as those above, Outshine the flames of zeal or love.

Yet think not, faireft, what I fing,
Can from a love platonic spring;
That formal foftnefs (falfe 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 feraphic fire,
Am aloft dying with desire,
With eager withes, ardent thoughts,
Prone to commit love's wildeft faults!
And (as we are on Sundays told
The lufty patriarch did of old)

Would force a bleffing from those charms,
And grafp an angel in my arms.

BR

RIGHT and blooming as the spring,
Univerfal love inspiring;

All our fwains thy praises fing,

Ever gazing and admiring.

NYMPH.

Praises in fo high a ftrain,
And by fuch a fhepherd fung,
Are enough to make me vain,
Yet fo harmless and so young.

SHEPHERD.

I fhould have despair'd among
Rivals that appear fo gayly:

But your eyes have made me young,

By their smiling on me daily.

NYMPH,

Idle boys admire us blindly,

Are inconftant, wild, and bold;

And your ufing me so kindly

Is a proof you are not old.

SHEP

SHEPHERD.

With thy pleafing voice and fashion,
With thy humour and thy youth,

Chear my foul, and crown my paffion :
Oh! reward my love and truth.

NYMPH.

With thy careful arts to cover

That which fools will count a fault,

Trueft friend as well as lover,

Oh! deferve fo kind a thought.

EACH APART FIRST, AND THEN BOTH TOGETHER.

Happy we fhall lie poffeffing,

Folded in each other's arms. Love and Nature's chiefeft bleffing In the ftill increafing charms.

So the dearest joys of loving,

Which scarce heaven can go beyond, We'll be every day improving,

S

SHEPHERD,

You more fair, and I'more fond.

NYMPH.

I more fair, and you more fond.

On One who died discovering her Kindness,

OM E vex their fouls with jealous pain,

While others figh for cold diflain:

Love's various flaves we daily fee!
Yet happy all, compar'd with me.

Of all mankind, I lov'd the best

A nymph fo far above the rest,

That we outshin'd the bleft above,
In beauty fhe, and I in love.

And therefore they who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have plac'd her now,
And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne,
And ev'n endur'd her very fcorn;
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 fhew how much I grieve.

ON LUCINDA'S

C°

The

DEATH.

O ME all ye doleful, dismal cares,
That ever haunted guilty mind!
pangs of love when it defpairs,
And all thofe ftings the jealous find:
Alas! heart-breaking though ye be,
Yet welcome, welcome all to me!

Who now have loft--- but oh! how much?
No language, nothing can express,

Except my grief! for she was such,

That praifes would but make her lefs.

Yet who can ever dare to raise

His voice on her, unless to praise ?

Free

Free from her fex'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 !

TO A

LADY RETIRING INTO A MONASTERY.

WHAT breaft but yours can hold the double fire

Of fierce devotion, and of fond defire ?

Love would fhine forth, were not your zeal fo bright
Whofe glaring flames eclipfe his gentler light :
Lefs feems the faith that mountains can remove,
Than this which triumphs over youth and love.
But fhall fome threatening priest divide us two?
What worfe than that could all his curfes do?
Thus with a fright fome have refign'd their breath,
And poorly dy'd, only for fear of death.

Heaven fees our paffions with indulgence ftill
And they who lov'd well, can do nothing ill.
While to us nothing but ourselves is dear,

Should the world frown, yet what have we to fear?

Fame, wealth, and power, those high-priz'd gifts of fate, The low concerns of a lefs happy state,

Are far beneath us: fortune's self may take

Her aim at us, yet no impreffion make;