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No-both by sober reason move, -
She prudence shows, and I true love-

No charge of folly can be laid.
Then (till the marriage-rites proclaim'd
Shall join our hands) let us be named
The constant swain, and virtuous maid.

Unknown.

CCVI.

You say you love,-and twenty more
Have sigh’d, and said the same before.
And yet I swear I can't tell how,
I ne'er believed a man till now.

'Tis strange that I should credit give
To words, who know that words deceive :
And lay my better judgment by,
To trust my partial ear or eye.
'Tis ten to one I had denied
Your suit had you to-morrow tried ;
But, faith! unthinkingly, to-day
My heedless heart has gone astray.
To bring it back would give me pain,
Perhaps the struggle, too, were vain ;
I'm indolent, ---so he that gains
My heart, may keep it for his pains.

Unknown.

CCVII.

Fair Hebe I left, with a cautious design,
To escape from her charms, and to drown Love in wine ;
I tried it, but found, when I came to depart,
The wine in my head, but still Love in my heart.
I repair'd to my Reason, entreating her aid,
Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weigh’d:
Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer,
That Xebe was fairest of all that were fair.

That's a truth, replied I, I've no need to be taught,
I came for your counsel to find out a fault ;
If that's all, quoth Reason, return as you came,
For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name.

Earl of De la Warra

CCVIII.

As I went to the wake that is heid on the green,
I met with young Phæbe, as blithe as a queen;
A form so divine might an anchorite move,
And I found (tho'a clown) I was smitten with love:
So I ask'd for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied,
Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied.
Lovely Phæbe, says I, don't affect to be shy,
I vow I will kiss you—here's nobody by;
No matter for that, she replied, 'tis the same;
For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame;
So pray let me go, I shall surely be miss'd;
Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kiss'd.
Lord bless me! I cried, I'm surprised you refuse;
A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse;
The month it is May, and the season for love,
So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove.
No, Damon, she cried, I must first be your wifc,
You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life.
Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us go,
But after, dear Phæbe must never say “No.”
Do you prove but true, (she replied,) you shall find
I'll ever be constant, good-humour'd, and kind.
So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't
And I kiss her so much, that I wonder she don't.

Unknown.

CCIX.

ON LORD KING'S MOTTO (LABOR IPSE

VOLUPTAS.)
'Tis not the splendour of the place,
The gilded coach, the purse, the mace;
Nor all the pompous train of state,
With crowds that at your levee wait,

That make you happy,—make you great.
But while mankind you strive to bless,
With all the talents you possess;
While the chief pleasure you receive,
Arises from the joy you give :
This wins the heart, and conquers spite,
And makes the heavy burthen light.
For Pleasure, rightly understood,
Is only labour to be good.

Unknown.

ССХ. .

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD,

1704. THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.
Lords, knights and squires, the numerous band

That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command,

To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look

The power they have to be obey’d.
Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,

And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms' beds

With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,

In papers round her baby's hair;
She may receive and own my flame,

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,

And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The rhymes some younger rival sends;
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,

And we shall still continue friends.

M

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it !)
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior.

CCXI.

AN ODE ON MISS HARRIET HANBURY, SIX

YEARS OLD.

Why should I thus employ my time,

To paint those cheeks of rosy hue?
Why should I search my brains for rhyme,

To sing those eyes of glossy blue ?

The power as yet is all in vain,
Thy numerous charms, and various graces:
They only serve to banish pain,

And light up joy in parents' faces.

But soon those eyes their strength shall feel;

Those charms their powerful sway shall find :
Youth shall in crowds before you kneel,

And own your empire o'er mankind.
Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit,

And thousands court your wish'd-for arms;
My Muse shall stretch her utmost wit,

To sing the victories of your charms.

Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost,

At least while verse like mine endures :
And future Hanburys shall boast,

Of verse like mine, of charms like yours.

A little vain we both may be,

Since scarce another house can show,
A poet, that can sing like me;
A beauty, that can charm like you.

Sir Charles H. Williams.

CCXII.
A SONG UPON MISS HARRIET HANBURY, AD.

DRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT.
DEAR Doctor of St. Mary's,
In the hundred of 'Bergavenny,

I've seen such a lass,

With a shape and a face,
As never was match'd by any.
Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty,
Has this girl of Ponty-Pool, Sir,

With eyes that would make

The toughest heart ache,
And the wisest man a fool, Sir.
At our fair t'other day she appear’d, Sir,
And the Welshmen all flock'd and view'd her;

And all of them said,

She was fit t'have been made
A wife for Owen Tudor.
They would ne'er have been tired of gazing,
And so much her charms did please, Sir,

That all of them sat

Till their ale grew flat,
And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir.
How happy the lord of the manor,
That shall be of her possest, Sir ;

For all must agree,

Who my Harriet shall see,
She's a Harriet of the best, Sir.
Then pray make a ballad about her ;
We know you have wit if you'd show it,

Then don't be ashamed,

You can never be blamed, -
For a prophet is often a poet !
But why don't you make one yourself, then ?
I suppose I by you shall be told, Sir,

This beautiful piece

Of Eve's flesh is my niece-
And besides, she's but five years old, Sir!

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