Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they please : But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, That shoots through the soul, from the beam of an eye; But in London these devils so quick fly about, In town let me live then, in town let me die, CHARLES MORRIS. EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE CORONATION (1715). S some fond Virgin, whom her mother's care, Drags from the Town to wholesome Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, From the dear man unwilling she must sever, She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n. Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds, Then gives a smacking buss, and cries, 'No words!' Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable, In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid, Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes; you; So when your Slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look sour, and hum a Tune, as you may now. ALEXANDER POPE. ON A YOUNG LADY'S GOING TO TOWN IN THE SPRING. NE night unhappy Celadon, Beneath a friendly myrtle's shade, With folded arms and eyes cast down, Gently repos'd his love-sick head: Whilst Thirsis, sporting on the neighbouring plain, Thus heard the discontented youth complain : "Ask not the cause why sickly flowers grow, "Chloris will go; the cruel fair, Regardless of her dying swain, Leaves him to languish, to despair, And murmur out in sighs his pain. The fugitive to fair Augusta flies, To make new slaves, and gain new victories." So restless monarchs, though possess'd Round the wide world impatiently they roam, Not satisfy'd with private sway at home. MATTHEW PRIOR. DAMON AND CUPID. HE sun was now withdrawn, When Damon stay'd behind, "O! those were golden hours, Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs; But now from wood and plain Flies every sprightly lass; No joys for me remain, In shades, or on the grass." The winged boy draws near, My game lay in the groves; To scatter round my arrows: And maidens love like sparrows. "Then, swain, if me you need, Straight lay your sheep-hook down; And haste away to town. So well I'm known at court, But readily resort To Bellendens or Lepels." JOHN GAY. THE BRIDE IN THE COUNTRY. Y the side of a half-rotten wood And vex'd to be absent from town. To herself she was forc'd to reply. And the sparrow, as grave as an owl, Sate list'ning and pecking hard by. "Alas! silly maid that I was;" Thus sadly complaining, she cry'd; "When first I forsook that dear place, It had been better far I had died! |