WHY we love, and why we hate,

Is not granted us to know;

Random chance, or wilful fate,
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

If on me Zelinda frown,

'Tis madness all in me to grieve: Since her will is not her own, Why fhou'd I uneafy live?

If I for Zelinda die,

Deaf to poor Mizella's cries; Ask me not the reason why: Seek the riddle in the skies.

I

DIE with too transporting joy, If the I love rewards my fire; If fhe's inexorably coy,

With too much paffion I expire.

SAY, lovely Silvia, lewd and fair,

Venus in face and mind,

Why must not I that bounty fhare
You pour on all mankind.
That fun that fhines, promifcuously,
On prince and porter's head,
Why must it now leave only me
To languish in the shade.

In vain you cry, you'll fin no more;
In vain you pray and fast;
You'll ne'er perfuade us, till threescore,
That Silvia can be chafte.
When thus affectedly you cant,

You're fuch a young beginner,
You make at beft an awkward faint,
That art a charming finner.

ET none be uncivil, but let a health pass,

LE

Here's a cleanly monteth to cool every glass; This, this is that claret on which we are fixt, Of this every glass is a whet to the next; Here's all that good, rightly petition'd, can fend; Here's a harmless new jeft, and trusty old friend. About with it, dear foul; there fo has his dose; Here's a health, a health to his good repofe.

FIE!

F

IE! pretty Doris, weep no more
Damon is doubtless fafe on fhore,
Defpight of wind and wave;

The life is fate-free that you cherish;
And 'tis unlike he now fhou'd perish,
You once thought fit to fave.

Dry, fweet, at last, those twins of light,
Which whilst eclips'd with us 'tis night,
And all of us are blind :

The tears that you so freely shed,
Are both too precious for the dead,
And for the quick too kind.

Fie! pretty Doris, figh no more;
The gods your Damon will reftore,
From rocks and quick-fands free;
Your wishes will fecure his way,
And doubtless he, for whom you pray,'
May laugh at destiny.

Still then those tempefts of your breast,
And set that pretty heart at rest,

The man will foon return;
Thofe fighs for heav'n are only fit,
Arabian gums are not so fweet,
Nor offerings when they burn.

On

On him you lavish grief in vain,
Can't be lamented, nor complain,
Whilft you continue true :
That man's difafter is above,
And needs no pity, that does love,
And is belov'd by you.

WHILST Strephon, in his pride of youth,

To me alone profest

Diffembled paffion, dreft like truth,
He triumph'd in my breast.

I lodg'd him near my yielding heart,
Deny'd him not my arms;
Deluded by his pleasing art,
Transported with his charms.

The wanderer now I lofe, or fhare
With every lovely maid:

Who makes the heart of man her care,
Shall have her own betray'd:

FOR many unfuccesful years,

At Cynthia's feet I lay ;
Batt'ring them often with my tears;
I figh'd, but durft not pray.
No proftrate wretch, before the fhrine-
Of fome lov'd faint above,

E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.

Still the disdainful nymph look'd down,
With coy infulting pride;
Receiv'd my paffion with a frown,

Or turn'd her head afide.

Then Cupid whisper'd in my ear,

Use more prevailing charms;

You modest whining fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms:

With eager kiffes tempt the maid;
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he briskly must invade,
That wou'd poffefs the heart.
With that I fhook off all the flave,
My better fortunes try'd; -.
When Cynthia in a moment gave,
What the for years deny❜d.

IF