H, Cloe! thou treafure, thou joy of my breast, Since I parted from thee, I'm a stranger to rest: I fly to the grove, there to languish and mourn; There figh for my charmer, and long to return: The fields all around me are smiling and gay; But they smile all in vain my Cloe's away: The field and the grove can afford me no ease; But bring me my Cloe, a defart will please...

No virgin I fee, that my bofom alarms; I'm cold to the fairest, tho' glowing with charms; In vain they attack me, and fparkle the eye; These are not the looks of my Cloe, I cry. (thron'd, Thofe looks where bright love, like the fun fits enAnd, fmiling, diffufes his influence round;

'Twas thus I first view'd thee, my charmer, amaz'd; Thus gaz'd thee wonder, and lov'd while I gaz'd.

Then, then the dear fair one was still in my fight; It was pleasure all day, it was rapture all night; But now, by hard fortune remov'd from my fair, In fecret I languish, a prey to defpair. But abfence and torment abate not my flame; My Cloe's ftill charming, my paffion the fame: Oh wou'd fhe preserve me a place in her breast, Then abfence wou'd plea fe me, for I wou'd be bleft..

Tweed

WH

Tweed-Side.

Tweed?

HAT beauties does Flora difclofe?
How fweet are her fmiles upon
Yet Mary's ftill fweeter than thofe,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Not daifies, nor fweet-blushing rofe,
Not all the gay flow'rs of the field,
Not Tweed, gliding gently thro' those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush;
The black-bird, and sweet-cooing dove,
With mufick inchant e'ery bush.
Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in fome village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks fing.

How does my love pafs the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few fheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily fhe lies afleep?
Tweed's murmurs shou'd lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the foft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrofial kiss.

'Tis.

'Tis fhe does the virgins excell,
No beauty with her may compare;
Love's graces all round her do dwell;
She's fairest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed;
Shall I feek them on sweet-winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

TAK

AKE pity, Silvia, charming fair,
No more my fate fufpend;

But folve my doubts, and ease my care,
Or bid me hope, or else despair;
And thus my fufferings end.

A tedious month I've been confin'd,
Which is an age in love;

Nor will you e'er difclofe your mind;
One while you're coy, and then you're kind;
Sometimes you neither prove.

Ah! cruel charmer, let me know my fate;
Whisper your love,, or thunder out your hate,

Arz

1

HE

HE, whofe active thoughts difdain
To be captive to one foe,

And wou'd break his fingle chain,

Or else more wou'd undergo;

Let him learn the art of me,
By new bondage to be free.

What tyrannick mistress dare,:
To one beauty, love confine?
Who, unbounded as the air,
All may court, but none decline.
Why fhou'd we the heart deny
As many objects as the eye?

Wherefoe'er I turn or move,

A new paffion doth detain me; Those kind beauties that do love,

Or those proud one's that disdain me. This frown melts, and that frown burns me, This to tears, that afhes turns me.

Soft fresh virgins, not full blown,

{

With their youthful sweetness take me;

Sober matrons, that have known,

Long fince, what these prove, awake me: Here, ftay'd coldness I admire;

There, the lively active fire.

She, that doth by skill dispense
Every favour the bestows;
Or, the harmless innocence
Which nor court nor city knows:
Both alike my foul inflame;
That wild beauty, and this tame.

She that wifely can adorn

Nature, with the wealth of art, Or, whofe rural fweets do fcorn

Borrow'd helps to take a heart: The vain care of that's my pleasure, Poverty of this my treasure.

Both the wanton and the coy,
Me, with equal pleasures move;
She, whom I by force enjoy,

Or, who forceth me to love :
This, because she'll not confefs;
That, not hide her happiness. '

She, whofe loosely flowing hair,
Scatter'd like the beams o'th' morn,

Playing with the sportive air,

Hides the fweets it doth adorn; Captive in that net restrains me,

In those golden fetters chains me.

Nor doth fhe with powers less bright,
My divided heart invade, ́.
Whose soft treffes fpread, like night,

O'er her shoulders a black shade

For the star-light of her eyes

Brighter fhines through those dark skies.

Black