If, when she appears i'th' room,

Thou dost not quake, and art struck dumb,

And in striving this to cover

Dost not speak thy words twice over,
Know this, &c.

If fondly thou dost not mistake,
And all defects for graces take,

Persuad'st thyself that jests are broken
When she has little or nothing spoken,
Know this, &c.

If when thou appear'st to be within,
Thou lett'st not men ask and ask again,
And when thou answer'st, if it be
To what was ask'd thee properly,
Know this, &c.

If when thy stomach calls to eat,
Thou cutt'st not fingers 'stead of meat,
And, with much gazing on her face,
Dost not rise hungry from the place,
Know this, &c.

If by this thou dost discover
That thou art no perfect lover,

& 2

And,

And, desiring to love true,

Thou dost begin to love anew,
Know this,

Thou lov'st amiss,

And to love true,

Thou must begin again and love anew*.

SUCKLING.

WHEN DELIA on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but hers can hear;
No other wit but hers approve;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

*The characteristic ease and sprightliness of this writer appear to much advantage in this piece, which, although careless and incorrect in its language, possesses the vivacity rarely found in English songs unalloyed with coarseness.

If she some other swain commend,

Tho' I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more

Delight in all that pleased before,

The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;~
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

LYTTELTON.

Au! why must words my flame reveal?
Why needs my DAMON bid me tell

What all my actions prove?

A blush whene'er I meet his eye,
Whene'er I hear his name, a sigh

Betrays my secret love.

In

In all their sports upon the plain
Mine eyes still fixt on him remain,
And him alone approve;
The rest unheeded dance or play,
From all he steals my praise away,
And can he doubt my love?

Whene'er we meet, my looks confess
The joys that all my soul possess,

And every care remove;

Still, still too short appears his stay,
The moments fly too fast away,
Too fast for my fond love.

Does any speak in DAMON's praise,
So pleased am I with all he says,

I

every word approve;

But is he blamed, although in jest,

I feel resentment fire my breast,
Alas! because I love.

But ah! what tortures tear my heart,
When I suspect his looks impart

The least desire to rove!

I hate the maid that gives me pain,
Yet him to hate I strive in vain,

For ah! that hate is love.

Then

Then ask not words, but read mine eyes,
Believe my blushes, trust my sighs,

My passion these will prove;

Words oft deceive, and spring from art,
The true expressions of my heart
To DAMON, must be love.

COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be
That boasts to love as well as me,

And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;

I'll teach thee what it is to love,

And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bathed in tears,
To live upon a smile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;
To kneel, to languish and implore,
And still, tho' she disdain, adore ;

It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes

With eager joy and fond surprise,

Yet