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Kind fears, impatient wifhes, foft defires,
Each melting charm that Love alone inspires?
Thefe, these are loft; and I behold no more
The maid, my heart delighted to adore.
Yet, ftill unchang'd, ftill doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not try, to love you›less ;.-
Weakly I grieve, unpitied I complain ;

But not unpunish'd shall your change remain ;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more bleft, when you like me could love.

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;
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.

III.

These painful suspicions you cannot remove,
Since you neither can leffen your charms nor my love;
But doubts caus'd by paffion you never can blame;
For they are not ill. founded, or you feel the fame..

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 ;
And measure time, by joy fucceeding joy!

But when the cares that interrupt our blifs
To me not always will thy fight allow;
Then oft with kind impatience look on this,
Then every minute count-as I do now.

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,
Which fees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my tranfported heart
A fenfe of joy unfelt before impart ?

II.

Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jafmine and the blushing rofe?

Her

Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural blifs, was here before :

Oft have I met her on the verdant fide
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.

No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.

III.

Is it to Love these new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving fun
His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent power
On favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this aufpicious bower.

IV.

Here firft my Lucy, fweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,

Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blifsful fires

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,
"Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
"Te veniente die, te decedente canebat."

A

I.

T length efcap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief furpaffing every other woe,
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind beftow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.

II. Ye

II.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'ershadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!

But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now with fond delight

And tafte refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine
Reafon's, pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

III.

Oft would the Dryads of thefe woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice;

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The sweetest fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,

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.

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