On a LADY ftung by a Bee.

s Calia in her garden stray'd,

Secure, nor dreamt of harm;.

A bee approach'd the lovely maid,
And rested on her arm.

The curious infect thither flew,
To taste the tempting bloom;
But with a thousand sweets in view,
It found a fudden doom.

Her nimble hand of life bereav'd

The daring little thing;

But, firft the fnowy arm receiv'd,
And felt the painful sting.

Once only cou'd that fting furprize,

Once be injurious found:
Not fo the darts of Cœlia's eyes,
They never cease to wound.

Oh! wou'd the short-liv'd burning smart

The nymph to pity move,

And teach her to regard the heart

She fires with endless love.

Love and Despair accounted for.

WHILE,

HILE, from my looks, fair nymph, you guess
The fecret paffions of my mind,

My heavy eyes, you fay, confefs,
A heart to love and grief inclin'd:

There needs, alas! but little art,

To have this fatal fecret found; With the fame ease you threw the dart, 'Tis certain you may fhew the wound.

How can I fee you, and not love,
While you as op'ning east are fair?
While cold as northern blafts you prove,
How can I love and not despair?

The wretch in double fetters bound,
Your potent mercy-may release:

Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief wou'd cease.

YE

Advice to BRITISH NYMPHS.

E nymphs of Britain, to whose eyes
The world admits the glorious prize
Of beauty to be due;

Ah! guard it with affiduous care,
Let neither flattery infnare,

Nor wealth your hearts fubdue.

Old Bromio's rank'd among the beaus;
Young Cynthio folitary goes,

Unheeded by the fair!

Ask you then what this prefrence gives?
Six Flanders mares the former drives,
The latter but a pair.

Let meaner things be bought and fold,
But beauty never truck'd for gold;
Ye fair, your value prove!

And, fince the world's a price too low,
Like heav'n, your ecftafies beftow
On conftancy and love.

But ftill, ye gen'rous maids, beware,
Since hypocrites to heav'n there are,
And to the beauteous too:

Do not too easily confide;
Let every lover well be try'd,
And well reward the true.

CLOE'S

W

HA T-e'er

CLOE'S Excellence.

do, where-e'er I go,

My Cloe's all my darling theme;

By day no other thought I know,
By night no other pleasing dream.

The flow'rs, that paint the fragrant mead,
Are emblems of my blooming dear;
My Cloe there I faintly read,

For Flora fmiles lefs winning fair.

The spicy gales, which fan the leaves,
And gently curl the crystal flood,
Defcribe my Cloe when the breathes

Ten thousand sweets throughout the wood.

The birds, that hail the genial spring,
And warbling grace each vocal spray,
Surpafs'd by Cloe, hang the wing,
And cease the various trilling lay.

The lamb, that skips with bounding heels,
Along the dewy verdant plain,

My Cloe's innocence reveals,

My Cloe's pleasant sprightly vein.

Beauty

Beauty and sense, in ample grace,
In full perfection gaily drest,
Charm us in Cloe's mind and face,
And sweetly rob us of our reft.

Minerva wife, and Venus fair,

Have jointly form'd the dang'rous maid;
Fly then, ye swains, nor pry too near,
To gaze, alas! is to be dead.

W

The COMPLAINT.

HEN firft you took my heart as a prize,
Due to the pow'r of your conq'ring eyes:

If ever I thought my captivity sweet,

"Twas when you allow'd me to lie at your feet.

But now fo ungrateful you are grown, All my kind services you disown;

And when that I ask you to lengthen my chain, You always answer me, Love has no pain.

Oh! did you know but the pain I endure,
Sure you wou'd never deny me the cure;
But fince it is fo, I must hope for no ease,
Since my physician won't know my disease.