Love fhou'd, like the year, be crown'd,

With fweet variety;

Hope fhou'd in the spring abound,
Kind fears, and jealousy :

In the fummer flowers fhou'd rife,

And in the autumn fruit;

His fpring doth elfe but mock our eyes,
And in a fcoff falute.

The

The Wit and the Beau.

TREPHON, whofe perfon every grace

STR

Was careful to adorn,

Thought, by the beauties of his face,

In Silvia's love to find a place,

And wonder'd at her fcorn,

part;

With bows and fmiles he did his
But oh! 'twas all in vain:
A youth less fine, a youth of art,
Had talk'd himself into her heart,
And wou'd not out again.

Strephon, with change of habits prefs'd,
And urg'd her to admire ;
His love alone the other drefs'd,
As verfe, or profe, became it beft,
And mov'd her foft defire.

This found; his courtship Strephon ends,
Or makes it to his glass;

There in himself now feeks amends;
Convinc'd, that where a wit pretends,
A beau is but an afs.

BENEATH a beech's grateful fhade,
Young Colin lay complaining;

He figh'd, and feem'd to love a maid,
Without hopes of obtaining;

For thus the fwain indulg'd his grief -
Tho' pity cannot move thee,
Tho' thy hard heart gives no relief,
Yet, Peggy, I must love thee.

Say, Peggy, what has Colin done,

That thus you crue'ly use him? If love's a fault, 'tis that alone

For which you shou'd excuse him : 'Twas thy dear self first rais'd this flame, This fire by which I languish; 'Tis thou alone canft quench the same, And cool its fcorching anguish.

For thee, I leave the sportive plain,
Where every maid invites me;
For thee, fole cause of all my pain;
For thee, that only flights me;
This love, that fires my faithful heart,
By all but thee's commended.
Oh! would't thou act so good a part,
My grief might foon be ended."

VOL. II.

M

That

That beauteous breaft, fo foft to feel,

Seem'd tenderness all over;
Yet it defends thy heart, like steel,
'Gainft thy defpairing lover.
Alas! tho' it fhou'd ne'er relent,
Nor Colin's care e'er move thee,
Yet, 'till life's latest breath is spent,
My Peggy, I must love thee.

HILE on thofe lovely looks I gaze,

WHILE

To fee a wretch pursuing,

In raptures of a bleft amaze,

A pleafing, happy ruin :

'Tis not for pity that I move;

His fate is too aspiring,

Whose heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies, wishing and admiring.

But, if this murder you'd forego,
Your flave from death removing;
Let me your art of charming know;
Or learn you mine of loving.

But, whether life or death betide,

In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride ;
The vanquish'd die with pleasure.

By

By a Lady.

YOUNG Damon, wounded with a dart

Shot from Belinda's eye,

Forfakes the fields to eafe his heart

With mufick's melody.

To balls and theatres he goes,

And feeks to footh his am'rous woes,

But all the means are vain;

Since fprightly founds blow up the fire,
Which beauty doth at first inspire,

And raife, not cure, his pain.

'Twas not the way to be fecure
From Cupid's mighty bow,
To feek from Phabus' lyre a cure:
But I can tell him how

Drive baftard modesty away,
And make a daring, dear effay,
To gain the nymph's confent.
'Tis that alone can give you ease;
Returns of love will pains redress,
And yield you wish'd content.