It is an active flame, that flies
First to the babies of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies,
And stills the bride, too, when she cries
Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks and flies,- -now here, now there,
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,
And here, and there, and everywhere
Has it a speaking virtue? Yes.
How speaks it, say? Do you but this,
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss
And this Love's sweetest language is.
Has it a body? Aye, and wings,
With thousands rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings,
Love honey yields, but never stings,
My love and I for kisses play'd;
She would keep stakes, I was content;
But when I won she would be paid,
This made me ask her what she meant ;
Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain,
Take your own kisses, give me mine again.
SOFT child of Love-thou balmy bliss
Inform me, O delicious Kiss!
Why thou so suddenly art gone,
Lost in the moment thou art won?
Yet, go for wherefore should I sigh ?—
On Delia's lip, with raptured eye,
On Delia's blushing lip, I see
A thousand full as sweet as thee!
OFTEN I have heard it said
That her lips are ruby-red.
Little heed I what they say,
I have seen as red as they.
Ere she smiled on other men,
Real rubies were they then.
When she kiss'd me once in play,
Rubies were less bright than they,
And less bright were those that shone
In the palace of the Sun.
Will they be as bright again ?
Not if kiss'd by other men.
PHILOSOPHERS pretend to tell,
How like a hermit in his cell,
The soul within the brain does dwell:
But I, who am not half so wise,
Think I have seen't in Chloe's eyes,
Down to her lips from thence it stole,
And there I kiss'd her very soul.
COME, lovely lock of Julia's hair,
The gift of that bewitching fair,
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Thou precious little auburn braid!
Of Julia's charms, O sacred part,
Thou'st drank the pure stream of her heart;
Thou'st tended on my love's repose,
Thou'st kiss'd her fingers when she rose,
And, half concealing many a grace,
Giv'n added powers to that sweet face:
Oft, careless, o'er her shoulders flung,
Down her small waist redundant hung;
And oft thy wanton curls have press'd,
And dared to kiss her snow-white breast!
High favor'd lock! O, thou shalt be
The dearest gift of life to me.
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Delightful little auburn braid!
And art thou mine? and did my fair
Intrust thee to her lover's care?
What streams of bliss wilt thou impart,
Who drank the stream of Julia's heart!
O, thou shalt be the healing power
To soothe me in misfortune's hour,
And oft, beneath my pillow laid,
My soul in dreams will ask thine aid.
Thou shalt inspire with full delight
The fairest visions of the night;
For thou, intrusive lock, hast spread
And wantoned o'er my Julia's bed;
Seen the sweet languish of her eyes,
Heard all her wishes, all her sighs:
O, thou hast been divinely bless'd,
And pass'd whole nights on Julia's breast.
Come, then, dear lock of Julia's hair,
The gift of that enchanting fair.
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Delightful little auburn braid!
YES, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me :
And yet I swear I can't tell how
The pleasing pain stole on me.
'Tis not her face which love creates, For there no graces revel:
'Tis not her shape, for there the fates Have rather been uncivil.
'Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common; And all her sense is only chat,
Like any other woman.
Her voice, her touch might give th' alarm;
'Twas both, perhaps, or neither;
In short, 'twas that provoking charm
Of Celia altogether.
SINCE truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue,
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song;
Adieu the dance at closing day,
And, ah, the happy morn of May.
How oft he told me I was fair,
And wove the garland for my hair;
How oft for Marian stript the bower,
To fill my lap with every flower!
No more his gifts of guile I'll wear,
But from my brow the chaplet tear;
The crook he gave in pieces break,
And rend his ribbons from my neck.
How oft he vow'd a constant flame,
And carved on every oak my name!
Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree
Is all that will remember me.
I FEED a flame within, which so torments me,
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me :
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die, than once remove it.
Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it,
My tongue does not betray, nor my eye show it :
No, sigh, and not a tear, my pain discloses,
For they fall silently like dew on roses.
Thus to prevent my love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel:
And while I suffer thus to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ;
While I conceal my love, no frown can fright me :
To be more happy I dare not aspire;
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
ON LADY MARGARET FORDYCE.
MARK'D you her cheek of roseate hue?
Mark'd you her eye of radiant blue ?—
That eye, in liquid circles moving!
That cheek, abash'd at man's approving!
The one Love's arrows darting round,
The other blushing at the wound.
Did she not speak, did she not move,
Now Pallas,-now the Queen of Love?
Rt. Hon. Richard B. Sheridan.
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