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HE morn was fair, the sky serene,

The face of nature smild,
Soft dews impearld the tufted plain,

And daisy-painted wild;
The hills were gilded by the sun,

Sweet breath'd the vernal air ;
Her early hymn the lark begun,

To sooth the shepherd's care:

When Mira fair, and Colin gay,

Both fam'd for faithful love,
Delighted with the rising day,

Together fought the grove :
And near a smooth translucent stream,

That filent stole along,
Thus Colin to his matchless dame,

Address’d the tender song.


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Hark, Mira, how from yonder tree,
The feather'd warblers sing,
They tune their artless notes for thee,

· For thee, more sweet than spring; • How choice a fragrance thro’ the air,

· Those spring-born blossoms shed ! • How seems that vilet proud to rear • Its purple-tinctur'd head !

• Ah! Mira, had the tuneful race

• Thy heart-bewitching tongue,
Who would not fondly haunt the place,

· Enamour'd while they sung?
6 Ye flow'rs on Mira’s bosom preft,

• Ne’er held ye place so fair,
Tho' oft ye breathe on Venus' breast,
And scent the



· Shall I to gems compare

thine eyes, Thy skin to virgin snows, Thy balmy breath to gales that rise • From every new-blown rose? Ah! nymph, fo far thy charms outshine

. The fairest forms we fee, . We only guess at things divine,

By what appear in thee.

'Twas thus enamour'd Colin sung.

His love-excited lays ; The grove

with tender echoes rung;
Refounding Mira's praise:
And thus cries Love, who sported near,

And wav'd his filken wings,
What wonder, since the nymph's so fairy

So fond the shepherd lings?

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s swift as time, put round the glass,

And husband well life's little space; Perhaps the sun, which shines so bright, May set in everlasting night.

Or if the sun again should rise,
Death ere the morn may close our eyes ;
Then drink before it be too late,
And snatch the present hour from fate.

Come, fill a bumper, fill it round,
Let mirth, and wit, and wine abound;
In these alone true wisdom lies;
For to be merry's to be wise.

Against Constraint in Love.

W up you gain the



Softly, gently, kindly treat her,
Suffring is the lover's part:
Beauty by constraint poflefling,
You enjoy but half the blessing,

Lifeless charm without the heart!


The Way to Win Her. A SWAIN, long tortur'd with disdain,

That daily figh’d, but figh'd in vain, At length the god of wine addrest, The refuge of a wounded breast.

Vouchsafe, O pow's, thy healing aid, Teach me to gain the cruel maid; Thy juices take the lover's part, Flush his wan looks, and chear his heart.

Thus to the jolly god-he cry'd,
And thus the jolly god reply'd;
Give whining o'er, be brisk and gay;
And quaff the sneaking form away.

With dauntless form approach the fair ; The way to conquer is to dare. The fwain pursu'd the god's advice, The nymph was now no longer nice:

But smiling, told her fex's mind, When you grow daring, we grow

kind: Men to themselves are most severe, And make us tyrants by their fear.


n vain, dear Cloe, you suggest, I

That I, inconstant, have poffeft,

Or lov'd a fairer she :
But if at once you wou'd be cur'd
Of all the ills you have endur'd,

Look in your glass and fee.'

And if perchance you there should find,
A nymph more lovely or more kind,

You've reason for your tears :
But if impartial you will prove,
Both to your beauty and my love,

How needless are those fears?

If in my way I should, by chance,
Give or receive a wanton glance,

I like but whilft I view :
How faint the glance, how slight the kiss,
Compar'd to that substantial bliss,

I still receive from you ?

With wanton flight the curious bee,
From flow'r to flow'r still wanders free;

And where each blossom blows,
Extracts the juice of all he meets,
And for his quintessence of sweets,

He ravishes the rose.


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