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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:
At night he declines on his Thetis' breast.
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:
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
Sigh'd on velvet pillow.
Water and a willow?
Love in cities never dwells,
Which sweet woodbine covers.
But much fewer lovers.
O, how changed the prospect grows !
Coxcombs without number!
Moon and stars that shone so bright,
And whole nights at ombre.
E’en of our own mothers;
What we lent to others.
And lose my reputation ?
Nymph, ah! cease thy sorrow.
THE FEMALE PHAETON.
Thus Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untamed,
With little rage inflamed:
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 ?
And bring home hearts by dozens ?
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;
Or know the reason why.
Make all her lovers fall :
She, I was loosed at all !”
Kitty, at heart's desire, Obtain'd the chariot for a day, And set the world on fire.
FALSE tho' she be to me and love
I'll ne'er pursue revenge;
Tho' I deplore her change.
They could not always last;
HER RIGHT NAME. As Nancy at her toilet sat, Admiring this and blaming that;
“Tell me," she said; “but tell me true; The nymph who could your heart subdue. What sort of charms does she possess ?” “Absolve me, Fair One : I'll confess With pleasure,” I replied.
“ Her hair, In ringlets rather dark than fair, Does down her ivory bosom roll, And, hiding half, adorns the whole. In her high forehead's fair half-round Love sits in open triumph crown'd: He in the dimple of her chin, In private state, by friends is seen. Her eyes are neither black, nor grey ; Nor fierce, nor feeble is their ray; Their dubious lustre seems to show Something that speaks nor Yes, nor No. Her lips no living bard, I weet, May say, how red, how round, how sweet : Old Homer only could indite Their vagrant grace and soft delight : They stand recorded in his book, When Helen smiled, and Hebe spoke—"
The gipsy, turning to her glass, Too plainly show'd she knew the face : “ And which am I most like,” she said, “Your Chloe, or your nut-brown maid?”
HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.
Let it not your wonder move,
If you then will read the story,
THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day;
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they looked more gay,
Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past; She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muse's tongue could speak; When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous check.