Kind fears, impatient wifhes, foft defires, But not unpunish'd shall your change remain ; TO THE SAME. I.. WHEN I think on your truth, I doubt you no more, I blame all the fears I gave way to before: I fay to my heart, "Be at reft, and believe "That whom once the has chofen fhe never will leave.” II. But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace That plays in the fmiles of that heavenly face; III. These painful suspicions you cannot remove, то TO THE SAME; WITH A NEW WATCH. WITH me while prefent, may thy lovely eyes Be never turn'd upon this golden toy : Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies ; But when the cares that interrupt our blifs AN IRREGULA.R O D E. WRITTEN AT WICKHAM IN 1746. TO THE SAME. I. YE fylvan fcenes with artless beauty gay, Ye gentle fhades of Wickham, fay, What is the charm that each fucceffive year, II. Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows Her Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store Oft have I met her on the verdant fide No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield, III. Is it to Love these new delights I owe? IV. Here firft my Lucy, fweet in virgin charms, Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy Of innocent defires, While Venus fcatter'd myrtles o'er her head. Whence then this ftrange increase of joy He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me, (If fuch another happy man there be) Has by his own experience tried How much the wife is dearer than the bride. ΤΟ TO THE MEMORY O F THE SAME LADY. A MONOD Y. A. D. 1747. "Ipfe cavâ folans ægrum teftudine amorem, A I. T length efcap'd from every human eye, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, II. Ye II. Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills, Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green, But never fhall you now behold her more: And tafte refin'd your rural charms explore. III. Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing, And every fhepherd's flute Was caft in filent fcorn away, While all attended to her fwecter lay. Ye larks and linnets, now refume your fong: And thou, melodious Philomel, Again thy plaintive story tell; For death has ftopt that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel. |