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Written in the Year 1732.


ELL me, my Delia, tell me why
My kindeft, fondest looks you fly?
What means this cloud upon your brow?
Have I offended? Tell me how!-

Some change has happen'd in your heart,
Some rival there has ftol'n a part;
Reason these fears may difapprove :
But yet I fear, because I love.


Firft tell me, Damon, why to-day

At Belvidera's feet you lay?

Why with fuch warmth her charms you prais'd,

And every trifling beauty rais'd,'

As if you meant to let me fee
Your flattery is not all for me?
Alas! too well your fex I knew,
Nor was fo weak to think you true.


Unkind! my falsehood to upbraid, When your own orders I obey'd;



You bid me try, by this deceit,

The notice of the world to cheat,
And hide, beneath another name,

The fecret of our mutual flame.


Damon, your prudence I confefs,
But let me wish it had been lefs;
Too well the Lover's part you play'd,
With too much art your court you made;
Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the difguife.


Ah! ceafe thus idly to moleft
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancied wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.


Though well I might your truth distrust,
My foolish heart believes you just:
Reason this faith may disapprove;

But I believe, because I love.



O D E,


("O primavera gioventu dėl anno.")
Written Abroad in 1729.


PARENT of blooming flowers and gay defires,

Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring,.

At whofe approach, infpir'd with equal fires,
The amorous Nightingale and Poet fing!


Again doft thou return, but not with thee
Return the fmiling hours I once poffeft;
Bleffings thou bring'ft to others, but to me
The fad remembrance that I once was bleft.


Thy faded charms, which Winter fnatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former luftre fhine;

But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,

Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.


Though linnets fing, though flowers adorn the green, Though on their wings foft Zephyrs fragrance bear; Harsh is the mufic, joylefs is the scene,

The odour faint: for Delia is not there.

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Cheerlefs and cold I feel the genial fun,
From thee while abfent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely prefence, faireft light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.

PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS. Tranflated, 1729-30.


("Divitias alius fulvo fibi congerat auro.")

ET others heap of wealth a fhining store,

And, much poffeffing, labour still for more;

Let them, difquieted with dire alarms,

Afpire to win a dangerous fame in arms :
Me tranquil poverty fhall lull to rest,
Humbly fecure, and indolently bleft;

Warm'd by the blaze of my own chearful hearth,
I'll waste the wintery hours in focial mirth;
In Summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,

In Autumn prefs the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bofom bear

Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When fwains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay;
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how foothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempeft howling near;


Or, while the wintery clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber affifted by the beating fhower!

Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In fearch of wealth, the black tempeftuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage feek no diftant fhore;
But, idly lolling on fome fhady feat,

Near cooling fountains fhun the dog-star's heat:
For what reward fo rich could Fortune give,
That I by abfence fhould my Delia grieve?
Let Great Meffalla fhine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in ftrong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pafs my tranquil days,
How would I flight Ambition's painful praife!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
and feed my folitary flock!

The ox,

On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy fhould I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who fleeps not by his fair-one's fide,
Detests the gilded couch's ufelcís pride,

Nor knows his weary, weeping eyes to close,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repose.

Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours profperous war can give;
Though through the vanquish`d Eaft he spread his fame,
And Parthian tyrants trembled at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hofts around him bleed,
With martial pride he preft his foaming teed.

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