SONG. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not ask for wine. The thirst that from the foul doth rif But might I of Jove's nectar fup, I fent thee late a rofy wreath, It could not withered be; Since when it grows and fmells, I fwear, THE SWEET NEGLECT. STILL to be neat, ftill to be dreft, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, ftill perfum'd; Lady, it is to be prefum'd, Tho' art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not found. Give me a look, give me a face, That strike mine eye, but not mine heart. HUE AND CRY AFTER CUPID. BEAUTIES, have ye feen a toy, Called Love; a little boy If he be among ye, say ; She that will but now difcover. Marks he hath about him plenty, And his breath a flame entire: Wounds the heart, but not the skin. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip: He doth bear a golden bow, Still the faireft are his fuel, And his baths their warmeft blood: Nought but wounds his hand doth feafon, And he hates none like to reafon. Truft him not; his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet : All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait: Not a kifs but poifon bears, And most treason's in his tears. Idle minutes are his reign, Then the ftraggler makes his gain, By prefenting maids with toys, And would have you think them joys: "Tis th' ambition of the elf To have all childish as himself. Though ye If by these ye please to know him, WILLIAM BROWN, Author of " Britannia's Paftorals,” the “ Shepherd's Pipe,” &c. —A complete and beautiful edition of bis works was publisbeď in 1772, by T. Davies in Ruffel Street, Covent Garden. SONG. SHALL I tell you whom I love? And if fuch a woman move As I now fhall verfifie, Nature did her fo much right, As e'er yet embraced a heart; Wit the hath, without defire To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly fweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though, perhaps, not so to me. |