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RARE artisan! whose pencil moves
Not our delight alone; but loves!
From thy Shop of Beauty we
Slaves return! that entered free.
The heedless Lover does not know
Whose eyes they are, that wound him so!
But, confounded with thy art,

Inquires her name that has his heart!
Another, who did long refrain,

Feels his old wounds bleed fresh again
With dear remembrance of that face:
Where now he reads new hopes of grace;
Nor scorn, nor cruelty, does find;

But gladly suffers a false wind
To blow the ashes of despair
From the reviving brand of care!
Fool! that forgets her stubborn look!
This softness, from thy finger took!

Strange, that thy hand should not inspire
The beauty only, but the fire!
Not the form alone and grace,
But act and power of a face!

Mayst thou yet thyself, as well
As all the World beside, excel !
So you th' unfeigned truth rehearse,
That I may make it live in verse,
Why thou couldst not, at one assay,

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That face to after Times convey;
Which this admires? Was it thy wit,
To make her oft before thee sit?
Confess! and we'll forgive thee this.
For who would not repeat that bliss!
And frequent sight of such a Dame,
Buy with the hazard of his fame!

Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,
Though thy good hand had failèd still;
When Nature's self so often errs!
She, for this many thousand years,
Seems to have practised with much care
To frame the race of women fair;
Yet never could a perfect birth
Produce before, to grace the Earth!
Which waxèd old, ere it could see
Her, that amazed thy art and thee!

But now 'tis done; O, let me know
Where those immortal colours grow,
That could this deathless piece compose
In lilies, or the fading rose!

No! For this theft, thou hast climbed higher
Than did PROMETHEUS for his fire!


IT is not that I love you less,

Than when before your feet I lay;

But to prevent the sad increase

Of hopeless love, I keep away!

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In vain, alas! For every thing

Which I have known belong to you, Your form does to my fancy bring;

And makes my old wounds bleed anew!

Who, in the Spring, from the new sun,
Already has a fever got;

Too late begins, those shafts to shun,
Which PHOEBUS through his veins has shot!

Too late, he would the pain assuage;
And to thick shadows does retire!
About with him, he bears the rage;
And in his tainted blood, the fire!

But vowed I have! and never must
Your banished Servant trouble you!

For if I break; you may mistrust

The vow I made to love you too!



TELL me, lovely loving pair!
Why so kind, and so severe?
Why so careless of our care?
Only to yourselves so dear!

By this cunning change of hearts; You the power of Love control! While the Boy's deluded darts

Can arrive at neither's soul!

For, in vain to either breast,
Still beguilèd Love does come:
Where he finds a foreign guest;
Neither of your hearts at home!

Debtors thus, with like design,

When they never mean to pay, That they may the law decline,

To some friend make all away!

Not the silver doves that fly,
Yoked in CYTHEREA'S car;
Not the wings that lift so high,
And convey her son so far;

Are so lovely, sweet, and fair ;
Or do more ennoble Love!

Are so choicely matched a pair;

Or with more consent do move!


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!.

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