Those faces want nature and spirit,
And feem as cut out of a log;
Juno, Venus, and Pallas's merit,
Unite in my sweet Molly Mog.
Those who toaft all the family royal,
In bumpers of Hogan and Nog,,
Have hearts not more true or more loyal,
Than mine to my fweet Molly Mog.
Were Virgil alive with his Phyllis,
And writing another eclogue,
Both his Phyllis and fair, Amaryllis
He'd give up for my fweet Molly Mog.
When the fmiles on each gueft, like the liquor,
Then jealousy fets me agog:
To be fure fhe's a bit for the vicar,
And fo I fhall lofe Molly Mog.
The Dazling BEAUTY.
s Perfians ftretch their votive arms
To Phœbus in his rifing state,
Igaze on dear Myrtilla's charms,
And meet those eyes that dart my fate.
So the fond moth round tapers plays,
Nor dreams of death in fuch bright fires;
With joy he haftes into the blaze,
He courts his doom, and there expires,
CLELIA'S Self-Reflection.
OUNG Philander woo'd me long,
But I was peevish, and forbad him;
I wou'd not hear his loving fong;
But now I wish, I wish I had him.
Each morning when I view my glass,
Then I perceive my beauty going;
And when wrinkles feize the face,
Then we may bid adieu to wooing,
My beauty, once fo much admir'd,
I find it fading faft, and flying;
My cheeks, which coral-like appear'd,
Grow pale, the broken blood decaying:
Ah! we may see ourselves to be
Like fummer-fruit that is unshaken;
When ripe, they foon fall down and die,
And by corruption quickly taken.
Ufe then your time, ye virgins fair,
Employ your day before 'tis evil;
Fifteen is a feafon rare,
But five and twenty is the devil:
Juft when ripe, consent unto't,
Hug no more your lonely pillow;
For women are like other fruit,
They lose their relish when too mellow.
If opportunity be loft,
You'll find it hard to be reclaimed;
Which now I may tell to my coft,
Tho' but myself none can be blamed:
If then your fortune you respect,
Take the occafion when it offers;
Nor a true-lover's fuit neglect,
Left ye be fcoff'd for being scoffers,
I, by his fond expreffions, thought,
That in his love he'd ne'er prove changing;
But now, alas! 'tis turn'd to nought,
And, paft my hopes, he's gone a-ranging.
Dear maidens, then take my advice,
And let not coyness prove your ruin;
For if
be o'er-foolish nice,
Your fuitors will give over wooing.
Then maidens old you nam'd will be,
And in that fretful rank be number'd,
As long as life; and when ye die,
With leading apes be ever cumber'd:
A punishment, and hated brand,
With which none of us are contented;
Then be not wife behind the hand,
That the mistake may be prevented.
AY not, Olinda, I defpife
The faded glories of your face,
The languifh'd vigour of your eyes,
And that once only-lov'd embrace.
In vain, in vain, my conftant heart,
On aged wings, attempts to meet,
With wonted speed, thofe flames you dart;
It faints, and Autters at your feet.
I blame not your decay of power,
You may have pointed beauties ftill;
Tho' me, alas! they wound no more;
You cannot hurt what cannot feel.
On youthful climes your beams difplay,
There you may cherish with your heat;
And rife the fun to gild their day,
To me, benighted, when you fet.
The Joys of FRUITION,
LOE, when I view thee smiling,
Joys cœleftial round me move,
Pleafing visions care beguiling,
Guard my state, and crown my love.
To behold thee gaily shining
Is a pleasure past defining,
Every feature charms my fight:
But, oh heav'ns! when I'm careffing,
Thrilling raptures, never ceafing,
Fill my foul with foft delight.
Oh! thou lovely dearest creature!
Sweet enflaver of my heart!
Beauteous mafter-piece of nature!
Caufe of all my joy and finart!
In thy arms enfolded lay me,
To diffolving blifs convey me,
Softly footh my foul to reft;
Gently, kindly, oh my treasure!
Bless me, let me die with pleasure,
On thy panting fnowy breast.
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