From the dear man unwilling she must sever,
Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She sigh'd not that they stay'd, but that she went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Assembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs three hours a day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea;
To muse, and spill her solitary tea;

Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ;
Up to her godly garret after sev❜n,

There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack; Who visits with a Gun, presents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, and cries,-'No words!'

;

Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table
Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse,
And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In pensive thoughts recall the fancy'd scene,
See Coronations rise on ev'ry green;
Before you pass th' imaginary sights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd
Knights,

While the spread fan o'ershades your closing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

you;

So when your Slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagu'd with headachs, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow,

Look sour, and hum a Tune, as you may now. ALEXANDER POPE.

ON A YOUNG LADY'S GOING TO TOWN IN THE SPRING.

NE night unhappy Celadon,

Beneath a friendly myrtle's shade, With folded arms and eyes cast down, Gently repos'd his love-sick head: Whilst Thirsis, sporting on the neighbouring plain, Thus heard the discontented youth complain :

"Ask not the cause why sickly flowers Faintly recline their drooping heads; As fearful of approaching showers,

They strive to hide them in their beds, Grieving with Celadon they downward grow, And feel with him a sympathy of woe.

"Chloris will go; the cruel fair, Regardless of her dying swain, Leaves him to languish, to despair,

And murmur out in sighs his pain. The fugitive to fair Augusta flies,

To make new slaves, and gain new victories."

So restless monarchs, though possess'd
Of all that we call state or power,
Fancy themselves but meanly blest,
Vainly ambitious still of more.

Round the wide world impatiently they roam,
Not satisfy'd with private sway at home.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

康

DAMON AND CUPID.

HE sun was now withdrawn,

The shepherds home were sped; The moon wide o'er the lawn

Her silver mantle spread;

When Damon stay'd behind,
And saunter'd in the grove.
"Will ne'er a nymph be kind,
And give me love for love?

"O! those were golden hours,
When Love, devoid of cares,
In all Arcadia's bowers,

Lodg'd nymphs and swains by pairs;
But now from wood and plain

Flies every sprightly lass;

No joys for me remain,

In shades, or on the grass."

The winged boy draws near,
And thus the swain reproves :
"While Beauty revell'd here,

My game lay in the groves;
At court I never fail

To scatter round my arrows:
Men fall as thick as hail,

And maidens love like sparrows.

"Then, swain, if me you need,

Straight lay your sheep-hook down;
Throw by your oaten reed,

And haste away to town.

So well I'm known at court,
None ask where Cupid dwells:

But readily resort

To Bellendens or Lepels."

JOHN GAY.

THE BRIDE IN THE COUNTRY.

Y the side of a half-rotten wood
Melantha sate silently down,

Convinc'd that her scheme was not
good,

And vex'd to be absent from town. Whilst pitied by no living soul,

To herself she was forc'd to reply. And the sparrow, as grave as an owl, Sate list'ning and pecking hard by.

"Alas! silly maid that I was;

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Thus sadly complaining, she cry'd; "When first I forsook that dear place, It had been better far I had died!

How gayly I passed the long days,
In a round of continu'd delights!
Park, visits, assemblies, and plays,
And a dance to enliven the nights.

"How simple was I to believe
Delusive poetical dreams!

Or the flattering landscapes they give,
Of meadows and murmuring streams.
Bleak mountains, and cold starving rocks,
Are the wretched result of my pains;
The swains greater brutes than their flocks,
And the nymphs as polite as the swains.

"What tho' I have got my dear Phil;
I see him all night and all day;
I find I must not have my will,
And I've cursedly sworn to obey!
Fond damsel, thy pow'r is lost,
As now I experience too late;
Whatever a lover may boast,

A husband is what one may hate!

"And thou, my old woman, so dear, My all that is left of relief, Whatever I suffer, forbear

Forbear to dissuade me from grief; 'Tis in vain, as you say, to repine

At ills which cannot be redress'd; But, in sorrows so poignant as mine, To be patient, alas! is a jest.

"If, farther to soothe my distress, Your tender compassion is led, Come hither and help to undress,

And decently put me to bed.