No-both by sober reason move,— true love- Unknown. CCVI. You say you love,—and twenty more 'Tis strange that I should credit give To trust my partial ear or eye. 'Tis ten to one I had denied Your suit had you to-morrow tried ; To bring it back would give me pain, 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: That's a truth, replied I, I've no need to be taught, If that's all, quoth Reason, return as you came, CCVIII. As I went to the wake that is held on the green, Lovely Phoebe, says I, don't affect to be shy, Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us go, 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. This wins the heart, and conquers spite, Unknown. CCX. TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD, LORDS, knights and squires, the numerous band Were summoned by her high command, My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell, For, while she makes her silkworms' beds 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 She'll give me leave to write, I fear, 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? The power as yet is all in vain, Thy numerous charms, and various graces: And light up joy in parents' faces. But soon those eyes their strength shall feel; Then, when on Beauty's throne you sit, Charms that in time shall ne'er be lost, At least while verse like mine endures: 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, ADDRESSED TO THE REV. MR. BIRT. DEAR Doctor of St. Mary's, In the hundred of 'Bergavenny, With a shape and a face, As never was match'd by any. Such wit, such bloom, and such beauty, The toughest heart ache, And the wisest man a fool, Sir. At our fair t'other day she appear'd, Sir, She was fit t'have been made A wife for Owen Tudor. They would ne'er have been tired of gazing, Till their ale grew flat, And cold was their toasted cheese, Sir. How happy the lord of the manor, 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, You can never be blamed, For a prophet is often a poet ! But why don't you make one yourself, then? Of Eve's flesh is my niece And besides, she's but five years old, Sir! |