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Tho' sighing swains their torments tell,

Their sensual love contemo ;
They only prize the beauteous shell,

But slight the joward gem.

Possession cures the wounded heart,

Destroys the transient fire;
But when the mind receives the dart,

Enjoyment whets desire.

By age your beauty will decay,

Your mind improves with years ; As when the blossoms fade away,

The ripening. fruit appears.

May Heaven and Sylvia grant my suit,

And bless the future hour;
That DAMON, who can taste the fruit,
May gather every flower!

GARRICK,

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When fair Serena first I knew,

By friendship’s happy union charm’d, Incessant joys around her flew,

And geutle smiles my bosom warm id,

But

But when, with fond officious care, 6

I press'd to breathe my amorous pain, Her lips spoke nought but cold despair,

Her eyes shot ice thro' every vein.

Thus, in Italia's lovely vales,

The sun his genial vigour yields; Reviving heat each sense regates,

And plenty crowns the smiling fields.

When nearer we approach his ray,

High on the Alps' tremendous brow, Surprised, we see pale sun-beams play On everlasting hills of snow.

T. SEWARD, M. A.

All my past life is mine no more,

The flying hours are gone; Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory

alone.

The time that is to come, is not ;

How then can it be 'mine? The present moment's all my lot, And that, as fast as it is got,

PHyllis, is only thine.

Then

Then talk not of inconstancy,

False hearts, and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.

ROCHESTER.

Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,

And Celia has undone me; But yet I swear I can't tell how

The pleasing plague stole on me.

'Tis not her face that love creates,

For there no Graces revel; 'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates

Have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for sure in that

There's nothing more than common, And all her sense is only chat

Like any other woman.

*

Her voice, her touch might give the alarm,

'Twas both, perhaps, or neither ; In short, 't was that provoking charm Of Celia altogether.

WHITEHEAD.

YE

E little Loves, that round her wait

To bring me tidings of my fate, As Celia on her pillow lies,

Ah! gently whisper, “STREPHON dies !"

If this will not her pity move,

And the proud fair disdains to love, Smile, and say, "'Tis all a lie,

And haughty STREPUOn scorns to die."

Swain, thy hopeless passion smother,
Perjured Celia loves another;
In his arms I saw her lying,
Panting, kissing, trembling, dying ;
There the fair deceiver swore
All she did to you before.

“ Oh !” said you, “ when she deceives me,

When that constant creature leaves me,
Isis' waters back shall fly,
Avd leave their oozy channels dry.”

Turo,

Turn, ye waters, leave your shore,
Perjured Celia loves no more.*

Cupid, instruct an amorous, swain
Some way to tell the nymph his pain

To common youths unknown :
To talk of sighs, and flames, and darts,
Of bleeding wounds, and burning hearts,

Are methods vulgar grown.

« What need'st thou tell ?" (the God replied) “That love the shepherd cannot hide,

The nymph will quickly find;
When Phæbus does his beams display,
To tell men gravely that 't is day,

Is to suppose them blind."

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* The turn in this song is ingeniously copied out of Ovid's epistle from Oenone to Paris :

Cum Paris Oenone poterit spirare relicta,

Ad fontem Xanthi versa recurret aqua.

Xanthe, retro propera, versæque recurrite lymphæg

Sustinet Oenone deseruisse Paris.

Oenone left, when Paris can survive,

The waves of Xanthus shall reverse their courses

Turn, waters, turn, ilow upward to your sources
Oenone 's left, yet Paris bears to live.

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