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Cease, cease to ask her name,
The crowned Muse's noblest theme,
Whose glory by immortal Fame

Shall only sounded be.
But if you long to know,
Then look round yonder dazzling row :
Who most does like an angel show,
You

may be sure 'tis she.
See near those sacred springs,
Which cure to fell diseases brings
(As ancient fame of Ida sings),

Three goddesses appear!
Wealth, glory, two possest;
The third with charming beauty blest ;
So fair, that heaven and earth confest

She conquer'd everywhere.
Like her, this charmer now
Makes
every
love-sick

gazer
Nay, even old

age

her
And banish'd flames recall.
Wealth can no trophy rear,
Nor Glory now the garland wear :
To Beauty every Paris here
Devotes the golden ball.

WILLIAM CONGREVE.

bow;

power allow,

ON THE DUCHESS OF RICHMOND.

W

ZHAT do scholars and bards and astro

nomers wise Mean by stuffing our heads with

nonsense and lies, By telling us Venus must always appear

In a car, or a shell, or a twinkling star,
Drawn by sparrows, or swans, or dolphins, or doves,
Attended in form by the Graces and Loves ?
That ambrosia and nectar is all she will taste,
And her passports to hearts on a belt round her

waist !

Without all this bustle I saw the bright dame;
To supper last night at Pulteney's she came,
In a good warm sedan, no fine open car,
Two chairmen her doves, and a flambeau her star.
No nectar she drank, no ambrosia she eat,
Her cup was plain claret, a chicken her meat,
Nor wanted a cestus her bosom to grace,
For Richmond that night had lent her her face.

PHILIP, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

TO MRS. CREWE.

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DAZHERE the loveliest expression to features

is join'd, By Nature's most delicate pencil de

sign'd; Where blushes unbidden, and smiles without art, Speak the softness and feeling that dwell in the

heart;

Where in manners, enchanting, no blemish we

trace, But the soul keeps the promise we had from the

face : Sure philosophy, reason, and coldness must prove Defences unequal to shield us from love : Then tell me, mysterious Enchanter, O tell ! By what wonderful art, by what magical spell,

My heart is so fenced that for once I am wise,
And
gaze

without rapture on Amoret's eyes ; That my wishes, which never were bounded before, Are here bounded by friendship, and ask for no

more? Is it reason? No, that my whole life will belie, For who so at variance as reason and I ? Ambition, that fills up each chink in

my

heart, Nor allows

any

softer sensation a part ? Oh no! for in this all the world must agree, One folly was never sufficient for me. Is my mind on distress too intensely employ'd, Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd ? For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain Both slacken the springs of those nerves which

they strain. That I've felt each reverse that from Fortune can

flow, That I've tasted each bliss that the happiest know, Has still been the whimsical fate of Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife : But, tho'versed in extremes, both of pleasure and

pain, I am still but too ready to feel them again. If then, for this once in my life, I am free, And escape from the snares that catch wiser than

my life,

me:

'Tis that beauty alone but imperfectly charms; For though brightness may dazzle, 'tis kindness

that warms ; As on suns in the winter with pleasure we gaze, But feel not their warmth, though their splendour

we praise, So beauty our just admiration may claim, But love, and love only, the heart can inflame !

Right Hon. CHARLES JAMES Fox.

BECAUSE,

WEET Nea! for your lovely sake

I weave these rambling numbers, Because I've lain an hour awake,

And can't compose my slumbers; Because your beauty's gentle light

Is round my pillow beaming,
And flings, I know not why, to-night,

Some witchery o'er my dreaming.

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Because we've pass'd some joyous days,

And danced some merry dances ; Because we love old Beaumont's plays,

And old Froissart's romances ! Because whene'er I hear

your

words Some pleasant feeling lingers ; Because I think your heart has chords,

That vibrate to your fingers !

Because you've got those long, soft curls,

I've sworn should deck my goddess ; Because you're not like other girls,

All bustle, blush, and bodice ! Because your eyes are deep and blue,

Your fingers long and rosy; Because a little child and you

Would make one's home so cozy!

Because your little tiny nose

Turns up so pert and funny ; Because I know you choose your

beaux More for their mirth than money ;

Because I think you'd rather twirl

A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an earl

And a coronet beside you!

Because you don't object to walk,

And are not given to fainting ;
Because you have not learnt to talk

Of flowers, and Poonah-painting ;
Because I think you'd scarce refuse

To sew one on a button ;
Because I know you'd sometimes choose

To dine on simple mutton!

Because I think I'm just so weak

As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you'll let me speak

My story—and my sorrows;
Because the rest's a simple thing,

A matter quickly over,
A church-a priest-a sigh—a ring-
And a chaise and four to Dover.

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

ADVICE TO A LADY IN AUTUMN.

ROSSES' milk, half-a-pint, take at seven,

or before, Then sleep for an hour or two, and no

[graphic]

more.

At nine stretch your arms, and oh! think when

alone There's no pleasure in bed.—Mary, bring me my

gown;

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