Her well-turn'd limbs confess

The lucky hand of Jove;
Her features all express

The beauteous Queen of Love;
What flames my nerves invade

When I behold the breast

Of that too charming maid
Rise, suing to be prest!

Venus round Fanny's waist
Has her own cestus bound,
With guardian Cupids graced
Who dance the circle round.

How happy must he be

Who shall her zone unloose!

That bliss to all, but me,

May heaven and she refuse! *

CHESTERFIELD.

Now see my Goddess, earthly born +,
With smiling looks and sparkling eyes,
And with a bloom that shames the morn
New risen in the eastern skies!

* Written on Lady Frances Shirley.

+ This song is designed as a contrast to an address to Wisdom.

Furnish'd

Furnish'd from nature's boundless store,
And one of pleasure's laughing train,
Stranger to all the wise explore,

She proves all far-sought knowledge vain.

Untaught as Venus, when she found
Herself first floating on the sea,

And laughing begg'd the Tritons round
For shame to look some other way:

And unaccomplish'd all as Eve
In the first morning of her life,
When Adam blush'd, and ask'd her leave
To take her hand, and call her wife.

Yet there is something in her face,
Tho' she's unread in Plato's lore,
Might bring e'en Plato to disgrace,
For leaving precepts taught before.

And there is magic in her eye,
Tho' she's unskill'd to conjure down
The pale moon from th' affrighted sky,
Would draw Endymion from the moon.

And

And there are words that she can speak, Most easy to be understood,

More sweet than all the Heathen Greek
By Helen spoke when Paris woo'd.

And she has raptures in her power,
More worth than all the flatt'ring claim
Of learning's unsubstantial dower,
In present praise or future fame.

Let me but kiss her soft warm hand,

And let me whisper in her ear

What Knowledge would not understand, And Wisdom would disdain to hear.

And let her listen to my tale,
And let one smiling blush arise,
Blest omen that my vows prevail !
I'll scorn the scorn of all the wise.

AH, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach love's fire!

Pains of love are sweeter far

Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
E'en the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart.
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send :
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;

But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink-in again. If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

DRYDEN.

AH! tell me no more, my dear girl, with a sigh,
That a coldness will creep o'er my heart,
That a sullen indifference will dwell on my eye,
When thy beauty begins to depart.

Shall thy graces, O Cynthia! that gladden my day,
And brighten the gloom of the night,
Till life be extinguish'd, from memory stray,
Which it ought to review with delight?

Upbraiding, shall Gratitude say, with a tear,
"That no longer I think of those charms
Which gave to my bosom such rapture sincere,
And faded at length in my arms?"

Why yes! it may happen, thou damsel divine!— To be honest-I freely declare

That e'en now to thy converse so much I incline, I've already forgot thou art fair.

WOLCOTT,