All the joys he drain'd before: Death come end me, To befriend me; Love and Damon are no more! OBSERVE the numerous ftars which grace The fair expanded skies; So many charms has Lesbia's face, Whene'er the beauteous maid appears, We cannot but admire ; But, when she speaks, the charms our ears, What pity 'tis, a creature Shou'd give mankind despair : And gains a thousand hearts; But Cupid cannot wound her, For fhe has all his darts. ON ON the bank of a river, clofe under the shade, Young Cleon and Sylvia one evening were laid; The youth pleaded ftrongly for proof of his love; But honour had won her his flame to reprove. She cry'd, where's the luftre, when clouds hade the Or what is rich nectar, the tafte being gone? (fun; 'Mongst flow'rs on the stalk sweetest odours do dwell, But if gather'd, the rofe itself lofes the fmell, Thou dearest of nymphs, the brisk fhepherd reply'd If e'er thou wilt argue, begin on love's fide: In matters of ftate let grave reafon be shown, But love is a pow'r will be ruled by none; Nor fhou'd a coy beauty be counted fo rare, For fcandal can blaft both the chafte and the fair. Moft fierce are the joys love's alembick do fill, And the rofes are sweetest when put to the still. BEHOLD, and liften, while the fair Breaks, in fweet founds, the willing air; WHAT WHAT man, in his wits, had not rather be poor, Than for lucre his freedom to give? Ever bufy, the means of his life to fecure, Inviron'd, from morning to night, in a crowd, Constrain'd to be abject, tho' never so proud; Still repining, and longing for quiet each hour, With the means of enjoying his wifh in his power, For a year must be past, or a day must be come, He must add to his store, this or that pretty fum; But his gains, more bewitching the more they in-. Only fwell the defire of his eye: (creafe, Such a wretch let mine enemy live, if he please; Let not even mine enemy die. AT T length, my cruel fair, give o'er AT Your frowns, and eafe my pain; The lightning not inceffant flies, But ftill you blast me from your eyes E'en Tityus and Prometheus find, The weary Sisyphus forbears Which from those wretches flies; Kind death will free me from my chains; Death more than love I prize. STREPHON, returning from the town, Came mufing to a neighb'ring grove ; Where in the shades he laid him down, And to himself thus talk'd of love: 'Twas in the golden age, faid he, That Cupid held a peaceful reign; He exercis'd no tyranny, Nor cou'd his fubjects then complain. Not ty'd to rules of birth and state, And fate and fortune play the game. Will those blest days return no more? Then thoughts of love disturb not me, I'll from this minute give you o'er. On |