Now she's near-I burn, I glow,
Short my breath, my voice grows low!
Thus the lark with cheerful lay
Hails th' approaching god of day,
But when nearer he displays
Brighter beams and warmer rays;
Then her little bosom heaves,
And its gentle warbling leaves.

TELL ME, FAIR ONE.
(HORACE.)

Tell me, my fair one, why so fast
From a fond lover's arms you run?
Why, with that tim'rous cruel haste
His tenderest endearments shun?

So flies the fawn, perplex'd with fear,
When from its anxious parent stray'd;
It starts at every breath of air,

And trembles with the trembling shade.

So flies the fawn; my fair one so;

But think what different causes move;

It wisely dreads a mortal foe;

You fondly are afraid of love.

Cease then, dear trifler, cease to toy;
Those silly childish airs resign;

Now fit to taste substantial joy,

Quit mamma's cold embrace for mine.

SEE, HOW THE WINE BLUSHES.

(HORACE.)

Sit down 'tis a scandal for Christians to fight; See, how the wine blushes asham'd at the sight! Come, lay by your logic, let each take his glass; In vino (the proverb affirms) veritas.

Is mine the first bumper then Damon your toast, Say, what pretty charmer your soul has engross'd? What a-deuce do you scruple? unless you'll comply, I'll not touch a drop on't, no marry, not I.

Make haste then-good gods! is it she? O the quean? A pert little tyrant as ever was seen!

What magic can loose thee! alas, thou must hope, No freedom from chains-till releas'd by a rope!

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO TOOK IT ILL
TO HAVE ME CALLED HER LOVER.

Lord! Miss, how folks can frame a lie!
Love you, say they?-by Jove not I.
Both Jove and you may witness bring
I never dreamt of such a thing.
Henceforth bid jealousy be gone;
Thy dear, dear self is thine alone;
From fear of rivals thou art free:
-O! were I half so blest as thee,

ALL FEMALE CHARMS, I OWN MY FAIR.
All female charms, I own my fair,

In your accomplished form combine;
Yet, why this proud assuming air?

The praise is Nature's, none of thine.
Wouldst thou, with just pretensions, claim
Of our applause an equal share;
Be thy desert, my dear, the same;
And prove as kind as thou art fair.

WHAT CHARMS HAS FAIR CHLOE.
What charms has fair Chloe!

Her bosom's like snow!

Each feature

Is sweeter

Proud Venus than thine!
Her mind like her face is
Adorned with all graces,
Not Pallas possesses

A wit so divine.

What crowds are a-bleeding
While Chloe's ne'er heeding:

All lying
A dying

Thro' cruel disdain :

Ye gods deign to warm her
Or quickly disarm her;
While Chloe's a charmer

Your temples are vain.

OLD AGE THOSE BEAUTIES WILL IMPAIR.

(HORACE.)

O think my too, too cruel fair,
Old age those beauties will impair;
A few, short-pleasing triumphs past,
Themselves shall fall a prey at last.

That cheek, where fairest red and white,
The lily and the rose unite;

That cheek its every charm shall lose
Like a brown leaf at autumn's close.

Then shall the glass thy change betray,
Then shalt thou fetch a sigh and say,
Why came not these kind thoughts before,
Or why return my charms no more.

FALSE OR TRUE.

Pensive Strephon, cease repining,
Give thy injured stars their due;
There's no room for all this whining,
Be Dorinda false or true.

If she feeds a faithful passion,

Canst thou call thy fortune cross?
And if sway'd by whim and fashion,

Let her leave thee-where's the loss?

RELPH'S POEMS.

HARVEST; OR THE BASHFUL SHEPHERD.

A PASTORAL.

HEN welcome rain the

weary reapers drove Beneath the shelter of a neighbouring grove;

Robin, a love-sick swain, lagg'd far behind, Nor seem'd the weight of falling showers to mind; A distant solitary shade he sought,

And thus disclos'd the troubles of his thought.

Ay, ay, thur drops may cool my out-side heat; Thur caller blasts may wear the boiling sweat; But my hot bluid, my heart aw in a broil, Nor caller blasts can wear, nor drops can cool.

Here, here it was (a wae light on the pleace) That first I gat a gliff o' Betty's feace: Blythe on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer At the deale-head unluckily we shear: Heedless I glym'd, nor could my een command, Till gash the sickle went into my hand: Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw brast out In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about;