THE

In hafte to DELIA's lips to go,

With equal hafte and equal heat,
Who would not rush those lips to meet?
Blefs'd envy'd streams, ftill greater blifs
Attends your warm and liquid kiss.
For from her lips your welcome tide
Shall down her heaving bofom glide;
There fill each fwelling globe of love,

And touch that heart I ne'er could move.
From hence in foft meanders ftray,

And find at laft the blissful way

Which thought may paint, tho' verse mayn't say.

Too happy rival dwell not there

To rack my heart with jealous care,
But quit the bleft abode, though loth,
And quickly paffing, cafe us both.

M

upon Death.

Iftaken fair, lay Sherlock by,

His doctrine is deceiving;

For whilst he teaches us to die,
He cheats us of our living.

To die's a leffon we fhall know
Too foon without a master;

Then let us only study now
How we may live the fafter.

To live's to love, to blefs, be bleft

With mutual inclination;

Share then my

ardour in your breaft,

And kindly meet my paffion.

But if thus blefs'd I may not live,

And pity you deny,

To me at leaft your Sherlock give,

'Tis I must learn to die.

SONG.

1

SON G.

HEN Fanny blooming fair
First caught my ravish'd fight,

Struck with her shape and air,
I felt a strange delight:

Whilft eagerly I gaz'd,
Admiring every part,

And every feature prais'd,
She stole into my heart.

In her bewitching eyes

Ten thousand loves appear;

There Cupid basking lies,

His fhafts are hoarded there;
Her blooming cheeks are dy'd

With colour all their own,
Excelling far the pride

Of rofes newly blown.

Her

Her well-turn'd limbs confefs

The lucky hand of Jove; Her features all exprefs

The beauteous queen of love : What flames my nerves invade,

When I behold the breast

Of that too charming maid
Rife, fuing to be press'd!

Venus round Fanny's waist
Has her own Ceftus bound,
With guardian Cupids grac❜d,
Who dance the circle round.

How happy must he be,

Who fhall her zone unloofe !

That blifs to all, but me,

May heaven and she refuse.

SONG.

SONG.

W Henever, Chloe, I begin

Your heart like mine to move,

You tell me of the crying fin

Of unchafte lawless love.

How can that paffion be a fin,
Which gave to Chloe birth?
How can thofe joys but be divine,
Which make a heaven on earth?

To wed, mankind the priest trepann'd,

By fome fly fallacy,

And difobey'd God's great command,

Increase and multiply.

You say that love's a crime; content:
Yet this allow you must,

More joy's in heav'n if one repent,

Than over ninety just.

Sin