THE QUESTION TO LISETTA.
WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,
But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom in song repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, prythee tell the rest.
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But, when she and you to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by;
Which way did you cast your eye?
But, when your cares to her you sing,
You dare not tell her whence they spring;
Does it not more afflict your heart,
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see,
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
THE sun was now withdrawn,
The shepherds home were sped;
The moon wide o'er the lawn
Her silver mantle spread;
When Damon stay'd behind,
And saunter'd in the grove.
"Will ne'er a nymph be kind,
And give me love for love?
"O! those were golden hours,
When Love, devoid of cares,
In all Arcadia's bowers
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;
And thus the swain reproves:
"While Beauty revell'd here,
My game lay in the groves;
At Court I never fail
To scatter round my arrows;
Men fall as thick as hail,
And maidens love like sparrows.
"Then, swain, if me you need,
Straight lay your sheep-hook down;
Throw by your oaten reed,
And haste away to town.
So well I'm known at Conrt,
None ask where Cupid dwells;
But readily resort
To Bellendens or Lepells."
ANSWER TO CHLOE JEALOUS.
DEAR Chloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face!
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and, as old Falstaff says,
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit; Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse-but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies-but thou hast my heart.
The God of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er Earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis' breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day;
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my way:
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree;
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
PHYLLIDA, that loved to dream
In the grove, or by the stream;
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
What, alas! should fill her head,
But a fountain, or a mead,
Water and a willow?
Love in cities never dwells,
He delights in rural cells
Which sweet woodbine covers.
What are your assemblies then?
There, 'tis true, we see more men;
But much fewer lovers.
O, how changed the prospect grows!
Flock and herds to fops and beaux,
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
To the torch and waxen light,
And whole nights at ombre.
Pleasant as it is to hear
Scandal tickling in our ear,
E'en of our own mothers;
In the chit-chat of the day,
To us is paid, when we're away,
What we lent to others.
Though the favourite Toast I reign;
Wine, they say, that prompts the vain,
Heightens defamation.
Must live 'twixt spite and fear,
Every day grow handsomer,
And lose my reputation?
Thus the fair to sighs gave way,
Her empty purse beside her lay.
Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
Though curst Fortune frown to-night,
This odious town can give delight,
If you win to-morrow.
THUS Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untamed,
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed:
Inflamed with rage at sad restraint,
Which wise mamma ordain'd,
And sorely vex'd to play the saint,
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd.
"Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails, forsaken?
Kitty's for other things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.
Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?
What has she better, pray, than I?
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?
Dearest mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try;
I'll have my Earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.
I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall :
They'll grieve I was not loosed before :
She, I was loosed at all!"
Fondness prevail'd,—mamma gave way :
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.
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