OF LOVE.

ANGER, in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes!
And Sorrow too, finds some relief
In tears; which wait upon our grief!

So ev'ry Passion, but fond Love,
Unto its own redress does move!
But that alone, the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs!

Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep! Disordered, tremble, fawn, and creep! Postures which render him despised; Where he endeavours to be prized!

For women (born to be controlled!) Stoop to the Forward and the Bold! Affect the Haughty, and the Proud; The Gay, the Frolic, and the Loud! . .

THE BUD.

LATELY, on yonder swelling bush,
Big with many a coming rose,
This early bud began to blush;
And did but half itself disclose!

I plucked it, though no better grown;
And now, you see, how full 'tis blown!
Still as I did the leaves inspire,

With such a purple light they shone,
As if they had been made of fire;
And, spreading so, would flame anon!

All that was meant by air, or sun;
To the young flower, my breath has done!

If our loose breath so much can do;
What may the same inform 's of Love!
Of purest Love, and Music too;

When FLAVIA it aspires to move!

When that, which lifeless buds persuades
To wax more soft, her youth invades !

TO A LADY, SINGING.

WHILE I listen to thy voice,
CHLORIS! I feel my life decay!
That powerful noise

Calls my fleeting soul away!

O, suppress that magic sound;
Which destroys, without a wound!

Peace, CHLORIS! peace! or, singing, die!
That together you and I

To Heaven may go!

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,
Shall now my joyful temples bind!
No Monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do, what this has done!

It is my heaven's extremest Sphere;
The Pale which held that lovely Dear!
My joy, my grief, my hope, my Love,
Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compass; and yet there
Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair!
Give me but what this ribband bound;
Take all the rest, the sun goes round!

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
Last in a daily changing tongue!
While they are new, envy prevails;
And as that dies, our language fails!

When Architects have done their part;
The matter may betray their art!
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built Palace down!

Poets, that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin, or in Greek!
We write in sand! Our language grows;
And (like our tide!) ours overflows!

CHAUCER, his Sense can only boast;
The glory of his Numbers lost!
Years have defaced his matchless strain;
And yet he did not sing in vain!

The Beauties which adorned that Age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
(Hoping they should immortal prove)
Rewarded with success his love!

This was the generous Poet's scope;
And all an English pen can hope!
To make the Fair approve his flame,
That can so far extend their fame!

Verse, thus designed, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading Beauty! if it prove
But as long-lived as present Love!