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LATELY, on yonder swelling bush,
I plucked it, though no better grown;
Still as I did the leaves inspire,
With such a purple light they shone,
To the young flower, my breath has done!
If our loose breath so much can do;
What may the same inform 's of Love!
purest Love, and Music too;
When FLAVIA it aspires to move!
When that, which lifeless buds persuades
TO A LADY, SINGING.
WHILE I listen to thy voice,
Calls my fleeting soul away!
O, suppress that magic sound;
Peace, CHLORIS! peace! or, singing, die!
For all we know
Of what the Blessèd do above,
Is that they sing; and that they love!
TO THE SAME LADY,
SINGING THE FORMER SONG.
CHLORIS! yourself you so excel,
When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,
That like a Spirit, with this spell
Of my own teaching I am caught!
That eagle's fate and mine is one!
Which, on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
Had ECHO, with so sweet a grace,
NARCISSUS' loud complaints returned;
Not for reflection of his face,
But of his voice, the boy had mourned!
ON A GIRDLE.
THAT which her slender waist confined,
It is my heaven's extremest Sphere;
A narrow compass; and yet there
OF ENGLISH VERSE.
POETS may boast (as safely vain)
Their Work shall with the world remain ! Both bound together, live, or die;
The verses and the prophecy!
But who can hope his Lines should long
When Architects have done their part;
Poets, that lasting marble seek,
CHAUCER, his Sense can only boast;
Years have defaced his matchless strain;
The Beauties which adorned that Age,
This was the generous Poet's scope;
Verse, thus designed, has no ill fate,
Of fading Beauty! if it prove
FOR HAVING LOVED BEFORE.
THEY, that never had the use
So they that are to Love inclined, Swayed by chance, not choice or art, To the first that 's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart!
'Tis not She that first we love; But whom, dying, we approve!
To Man, that was i' th' evening made,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Then at AURORA, whose fair hand