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You cannot know what secret pain I prove,
When I with burning blushes own I love.
You see my artless joy at your approach,
I figh, I faint, I tremble at your touch ;
And in

your absence all the world I fhun;
I hate mankind, and curse the chearing fun.

Still as I fly, ten thoufand swains pursue ; · Ten thousand fwains I fạcrifice to yoự.

I fhew you all my heart without disguise :
But these are tender proofs that you despise
I see too well what wishes you pursue ;
You wou'd not only conquer, but undo :
You, cruel victor, weary of your flame,
Would seek a cure in my eternal shame ;
And not content my honour to subdue,
Now Arive to triumph o'er my virtue too.
Oh! LovB, 4 god indeed to womankind,
Whose arrows burn me and whose fetters bind,
Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame,
And blast these traytors that profane thy name ;
Who by pretending to thy facred fire,
Raise cursed trophies to impure desire.

Have you forgot with what ensnaring art
You first feduc'd this fond uncautious heart?
Then as I fed, did you not kneeling cry,
“ Turn, cruel beauty; whither wou'd you fly?

Why all these doubts? why this diftruftful fear? “ No impious wishes shall offend your ear :

« Nor


« Nor ever shall my boldeft hopes pretend
66 Above the title of a tender friend;
“ Bleft, if my lovely goddess will permit
My humble vows thus fighing at her feet,
“ The tyrant Love that in my bosom reigns,
" The god himself submits to wear your chains
“ You shall direct his course, his ardour tame,
" And check the fury of his wildest flame."

Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiy'd;
Sooth'd by such sounds, I liften'd and believ'd;
Now quite forgot that soft submisive fear,
You dare to ask what I must blush to hear.

Cou'd I forget the honour of my race,
And meet your wishes, fearless of disgrace;
Cou'd paflion v'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail ;
Yet to preserve your heart (which fill muft be,
False as it is, for ever dear to me)
This fatal proof of love I would not give,
Which you'd contemn the moment you receive.
The wretched she, who yields to guilty joys,
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas'd, I then shou'd fee


The wretched victim by your arts undone.
Yet if I cou'd that cold indifference bear,
What more wou'd strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection wou'd my soul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel fcorn.

* Has


“ Has love no pleasures free from guilt or fear? ** Pleasures less fierce, more lafting, more sincere ? • Thus let us gently kiss and fondly gaze, “ Love is a child, and like a child it plays."

O STREPHON, if you wou'd continue just,
If love be something more than brutal luft,
Forbear to ask what I must ftill deny,
This bitter pleasure, this destructive joy,
So closely follow'd by the dismal train
Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain.

She paus'd ; and fix'd her eyes upon her fan ;
He took a pinch of snuff, and thus began;
Madam, if love -- but he cou'd say no more,
For Mademoiselle came rapping at the door.
The dangerous moments no adieus affords
--Begone, fhe cries, I'm sure I hear my lord.
The lover starts from his unfinish'd loves,
To snatch his hat, and seek his scatter'd gloves :
The fighing dame to meet her dear prepares,
While Strephon curfing flips down the back-stairs.







HE bassette-table spread, the tallier come,

Why stays SMILINDA in the dressing-room?
Rise, penfive nymph! the tallier stays for you.

Ah! Madam, fince my SHARPER is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador'd alpieu.
I saw him stand behind OMBRELIA'S chair,
And whisper with that soft, deluding air,
And those feign'd sighs, that cheat the liftning fair.

Is this the cause of your romantick strains ?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by Love, so I' by Fortune cross'd,
In one bad deal three septlevas I loft.

Is that a grief which you compare with mine?
With ease the smiles of Fortune I resign.
Wou'd all my gold in one bad deal were gone,
Were lovely SHARPER mine, and mine alone:



A lover loft is but a common care,
And prudent nymphs against the change prepare.

of clubs thrice loft! oh! who cou'd guess This fatal stroke! this unforeseen distress!

See! Betty Loveit very à propos !
She all the pains of love and play does know,
Deeply experienc'd many years ago.
Dear BETTY shall th' important point decide,
Berty, who oft the pains of each has try'd :
Impartial, she shall fay who suffers moft,
By cards' ill-usage, or by lovers loft.

Tell, tell your griefs ; attentive will I stay,
Tho' time is precious, and I want some tea.

Behold this equipage by MATHERS wrought,
With fifty guineas (a great pen’orth !) bought !
See on the tooth-pick Mars and Cupid strive,
And both the struggling figures seem to live.
Upon the bottom fee the queen's bright face

e ;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble cafe ;
Jove, Jove himself does on the sciffars shine,
The metal and the workmanship divine.

This fnaff-box, once the pledge of SHARPER's love,
When rival beauties for the present ftrove

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