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Fly, fly, profane fogs! far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing day
With your dull influence; it is for you

To sit and scowl upon night's heavy brow;
Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin morn,
Where nought but smiles and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly, then, and do not think with her to stay;
Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.

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UPON THE FAIR ETHIOPIAN SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.

Lo! here the fair Chariclia! in whom strove

So false a fortune, and so true a love.

Now, after all her toils by sea and land,

Oh, may she but arrive at your white hand!
Her hopes are crown'd, only she fears that then
She shall appear true Ethiopian.

ON MARRIAGE.

I WOULD be married, but I'd have no wife;
I would be married to a single life.

TO THE MORNING.

SATISFACTION FOR SLEEP.

WHAT succour can I hope the Muse will send Whose drowsiness hath wrong'd the Muse's friend?

What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,

Unless the Muse sing my apology?

Oh, in that morning of my shame! when I
Lay folded up in sleep's captivity,

How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes
Into thy modest vail! How didst thou rise
Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and did'st run
To draw the curtains, and awake the Sun!
Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,
And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides:
And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My own Apollo, try if I can make
His Lethe be my Helicon: and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble raptures starts to Heaven, and brings
Enthusiastic flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Dress'd in the glorious madness of a Muse,
Whose feet can walk the milky way, and choose
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb
Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time;
And trace Eternity-But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where Mercy cannot find them; but, O thou
Bright Lady of the morn! pity doth lie
So warm in thy soft breast it cannot die:
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise
Oh meet the angry god, invade his eyes,
And stroke his radiant cheeks! one timely kiss
Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss;

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So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,

Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates; and duly mock

The early lark's shrill orisons to be
An anthem at the day's nativity.

And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine,
That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.

But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I
Was ever known to be thy votary.

No more my pillow shall thine altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born

Again a fresh child of the buxom morn,

Heir of the Sun's first beams; why threat'st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,

Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,

Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
Thy downy finger; dwell upon their eyes,
Shut in their tears; shut out their miseries.

LOVE'S HOROSCOPE.

1 Love, brave Virtue's younger brother,
Erst hath made my heart a mother;
She consults the conscious spheres,
To calculate her young son's years.
She asks if sad, or saving powers,
Gave omen to his infant hours;
She asks each star that then stood by,
If poor Love shall live or die.

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Are these the beams that rule thy day?
Thou know'st a face in whose each look,
Beauty lays ope Love's fortune-book,
On whose fair revolutions wait

Th' obsequious motions of Love's fate;
Ah! my heart, her eyes and she
Have taught thee new astrology.
Howe'er Love's native hours were set,
Whatever starry synod met,
'Tis in the mercy of her eye,
If poor Love shall live or die.

3 If those sharp rays, putting on

Points of death, bid Love begone,
(Though the Heavens in council sate,
To crown an uncontrolled fate,
Though their best aspects twined upon
The kindest constellation,

Cast am'rous glances on his birth,
And whisper'd the confed'rate earth
To pave his paths with all the good
That warms the bed of youth and blood,)
Love has no plea against her eye;
Beauty frowns, and Love must die.

4 But if her milder influ'nce move,

And gild the hopes of humble Love:
(Though Heaven's inauspicious eye
Lay black on Love's nativity;
Though ev'ry diamond in Jove's crown
Fix'd his forehead to a frown,)
Her eye a strong appeal can give,
Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.

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5 Oh! if Love shall live, oh! where
But in her eye, or in her ear,
In her breast, or in her breath,
Shall I hide poor Love from death?
For in the life ought else can give,
Love shall die although he live.

6 Or if Love shall die, oh! where,
But in her eye, or in her ear,
In her breath, or in her breast,
Shall I build his fun'ral nest?

While Love shall thus entombed lie,
Love shall live, although he die.

OUT OF VIRGIL,

IN THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING.

ALL trees, all leafy groves confess the spring

Their gentlest friend; then, then the lands begin

To swell with forward pride and seed desire

To generation; heaven's almighty sire
Melts on the bosom of his love, and pours
Himself into her lap in fruitful showers,
And by a soft insinuation, mixt

With earth's large mass, doth cherish and assist
Her weak conceptions; no lone shade, but rings
With chatting birds' delicious murmurings.
Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields
The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields
(Quick with warm zephyrs' lively breath) lay forth
Their pregnant bosoms in a fragrant birth;

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