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Tell me no more of flames in love,

That none be deceiv'd by time's too quick flowing,

That fcornful Silvia's chains I wear

Pag. 252

200

21

The chains of love I wear,

114

The lafs that wou'd know how to manage a man,

219

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Then never let me fee her more!

There ne'er was fo wretched a lover as I,

233

Tho' for feven years and mair honour fhouldreave me, 119

Thou flask, once fill'd with glorious red,

Thou gentle god, who doft prefide

Thou foft machine that doft her hand obey,

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young,

Thy vain purfuit, fond youth, give o’er,

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We'll drink, and we'll never have done, boys,
Wert thou but my own thing,

What ho! thou genius of the clime, what ho!
What shall I do, to fhew how much I love her ?
What ftate of life can be fo bleft

When Aurelia first I courted,

When Cloe was by Damon feen,

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ENTLY touch the warbling lyre,
Cloe feems inclin'd to reft;"

Fill her foul with fond defire; '
Softeft notes will footh her breaft
Pleafing dreams affift in love,T
Let them all propitious prove. us T

On the moffy bank the lies,
Nature's verdant velvet bed;01
Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,
Forming pillows for her head
Zephyrs waft their odours round
And indulging whifpers found. O

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VOL. III.

B

To

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o you, fair ladies, now in town, We country-men do write; And do invite you to come down,

To tafte of our delight: to rate of The weather's fine, the fields are gay,

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And 'tis the pleasant month of May.

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The country's now in all its pride,
New-dreft in lovely green;
The earth, with various colours dy'd,
Difplays a lovely fcene:

A thousand pretty flow'rs appear,
To deck your bofom and your hair.

The cuckow's pick'd up all the dirt;
The trees are all in bloom;

If rural mufick can divert,

Each bufh affords a tune:

The turtle's heard in every grove,
And milk-maids fing their fongs of love,

Cou'd we perfuade you to come down,
Our joys wou'd be compleat;
Dear ladies, leave the noify town,

And to our fhades retreat:

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Wou'd but in our fhades appear, you

You'd make our fields Elizium here.

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We'll fhew you all our cow-flip meads,
And pleasant woods and fprings;
And lead you to the tuneful fhades
Where Philomela fings:

Sweet Philomel, whofe warbling throat
Excels your Senefino's note.

For you we deck and trim our bowers,
And make our gardens fine;

For you preferve our choiceft flowers,
That now are in their prime:
The brooks do murmur at your stay;
And winds do figh for your delay.

Come then, and take our morning air,
Juft rofe from flow'ry beds;
"Tis better than your fnuff by far,
And all perfumes exceeds:

Our ev'ning walks more pleasures bring
Than can your crowded park and ring.

For your own fakes, if not for ours,
Dear London town forego;

The country'll give your eyes new pow'rs,

And make each beauty glow;

"Twill to the lilly add the rofe,

And you fhall brighter charms difclofe.

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