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O TURN not those dear lips away,
But let us kiss while yet we may,
While yet we may, for stealing time
Will ne'er restore those hours of prime.
Yon blushing sun that sets to night,
To-morrow rises with new light,
But ah! when once our days are done,
The shades of endless night come on.
An hundred kisses then, my fair,
And now another hundred spare,
Another hundred still remain,
Grant then the number o'er again.
Who kissing can despise, or blame?
A chaste delight that's still the same,
Where love-is ever but begun,
Never, ah! never-to be done.
Those lips when press'd more lovely grow,
More sweetly pout, more deeply glow,
Should I ten thousand kisses gain,
New stores of bliss would still remain.
Thus, tho' the chaste industrious bee
Of blooming shrub, or fragrant tree,
The sweets with greedy joy devours,
Unhurt he leaves the beauteous flowers.



THE bells that from yon distant tow'r

So jocund Damon's marriage tell, Tho' now they hail his blissful hour,

Will soon proclaim my funeral knell : Ah! Damon, ere thy flatt'ring tale

My unsuspicious nature won,. I gaily sung o'er hill and dale,

Blythe as the bird that hails the sun.

Amidst the hymeneal train,

Ah! should it to thy ear be borneThy slighted nymph along the plain

Strays, wretched rover! all forlorn :Say, will a gentle struggling sigh

Escape amidst the festive scene! Will memory's retrospective eye

Look back on days that once have been?

When roving o'er the hallow'd ground,
Encircled all with mournful yew,

Should the green sod that clasps me round,
Obtrusive catch thy careless view:
Say, as thou gazest on my dust,

With conscious feelings wilt thou glow ?
And, to thy once lov'd Anna just,
Will pity's glistening current flow?

Ah, no! in earth's cold bosom laid,
Let me unwept, forgotten, lie;
Nor, tho' 'twould sooth my lonely shade,
Bestow on me one single sigh-
'Twould wrong the fair, the happy bride,
Whom kinder fates have join'd to thee;
Be then that last sad claim deny'd,

And never once reflect on me.

Rev. Thomas Browne.


WILL the ladies permit me to offer before 'em
A story well known, and of perfect decorum?
When Salisbury's fam'd Countess was dancing with glee,
The stocking's security fell from her knee;

Rival beauties, and courtiers, they could not do less,
Kindly pitied the fair, and enjoy'd her distress:
Allusions and hints, sneers and whispers, went round,
And the trifle was scouted, and left on the ground;
But EDWARD the brave, with true soldier-like spirit,
Cries, "The garter is mine, 'tis the order of merit."
The first knights of my court shall be happy to wear
(Proud distinction) the garter that fell from the fair;
Whilst in letters of gold ('tis your monarch's high will)
Shall these words be inscrib'd, "Ill to him who thinks


For a Cavern in the Vale of Glamorgan.

I, intro! nec timeat justus faciemque caverna,
Ceu quanquam noctis sedes tenebrosa videtur,
Cæterum ad Elysii campos certissima porta.

O thou, who hither com'st from far,
From tranquil vales, or fiend-like war,
From Wolga's fiercely rolling tide,
Or Arar's banks (whose tranquil side
With thyme so sweetly cover'd o'er)
Here rest! and try the world no more!
Here, where flowers of beauteous hue,
In modest pride attract thy view,
Where rills from mountain heights descend
In gurgling streams, and slowly bend
Their wand'ring courses down the vale,
Where peace and blooming health prevail,
And where the birds their notes prolong,
Sigh to the woods their sweetly varying song.
O pilgrim! fly from ev'ry earthly woe,

And taste those raptures which these scenes bestow;
Fly from the world! beset with passions rude,
And own no home but blissful solitude.




WHERE gently swinging o'er the gate,

The royal lion hugs his chain,
Deck'd in a tawny hide, and wig
(Instead of mane)

As frizzled and as big

As that which clothes the wisest judge's pate.-
The village club, inspir'd by beer,
Had met, the chronicle to hear,
Which, weekly, to the list'ning crowd,
Aaron, their clerk, proclaim'd aloud.
While talking over state affairs,
Each fault in politics discerning,
And praising Aaron's wond'rous learning,
A hawker came to vend his wares;
The well-pack'd box his aged shoulders prest,
And his rough beard descended to his breast.
"Vell, shentlemen, vat you vant to buy?
Goot razors, knives, vate'er you chuse,
Vatch-keys, or buckles for de shoes;
Or do you stand in need

Of spectacles, vich help to read?"
"Do you sell helps to read?" Hodge cries,
And yawns, and rubs his drowsy eyes;
"Hand me a pair,-at least I'll try;
Who knows, but, when the old man's dead,
I may be clerk in Aaron's stead."

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