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The silken fringe that veils the eye,
The dimpled chin, love's dear abode; The swelling lips of coral dye,
Those lips, whence notes soul-rending flow'd.
Still I beheld, as in a bower,
The charming maid sequester'd stood; Her head was crown'd with many a flow'r, The produce of her native wood.
She thought no fond intruder near,
"Collin," she said, "has chang'd his love,
"6 Young Emma's hand he oft has press'd, Extoll'd her form, and wond'ring gaz'd; Nor was I ere till then distress'd,
To hear the beauteous Emma prais'd.
"Yet Collin was my earliest choice,
She left the bower to seek a lamb,
Then she beheld a stranger near,
As sudden from my sight she fled.
Thus glanc'd away th' dear unknown,
IMITATION OF HORACE,
LIB I. ODE 19.
THE cruel queen of fierce desires,
And melts again my mind to love.
On blooming Glycera I gaze,
By too resistless force opprest!
In vain I strive to break my chain;
Impetuous tides of joy and pain,
By turns my lab'ring bosom tear; The queen of love, with all her train Of hopes and fears, inhabits there.
No more the wand'ring Scythian's might,
Haste, grassy altars let us rear;
Haste, wreaths of fragrant myrtle twine; With Arab sweets perfume the air,
And crown the whole with gen'rous wine.
While we the sacred rites prepare,
The cruel queen of fierce desires Will wound, propitious to my prayer, Th' obdurate maid with equal fires.
Rev. J. Wesley.
How happy is he, born or taught,
That serveth not another's will! Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill:
Whose passions not his master's are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Unty'd unto the world with care
Of public fame or private breath:
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatt'rers feed, Nor ruin make oppressor's great:
Who God doth late and early pray,
This man is freed from servile bands
Sir Henry Wotton.
FROM MR. COTTON TO MR. J. WALTON.
WHILST in this cold and blust'ring clime, Where bleak winds howl and tempests roar, We pass away the roughest time,
Has been of many years before:
Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks,
Whilst all the ills are so improv'd
Of this dead quarter of the year, That ev'n you, so much belov'd,
We would not now wish with us here..
In this estate, I say, it is
Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this
You, our dear friend, have more repose.