II.

Is it, because you fear to share
The ills that Love moleft;

The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast?

III.

Alas! by fome degree of woe

We every bliss must gain :

The heart can ne'er a transport know,
That never feels a pain.

V E R SE S,

Written at Mr. POPE's Houfe at Twickenham, which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE.

In Auguft, 1735.1

I.

O, Thames, and tell the bufy town,

Go

Not all its wealth or pride

Could tempt me from the charms that crown

Thy rural flowery fide :

II.

Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd

The Mufes' green retreat,

With every fmile of Nature grac'd,

With every art complete.

III.

But now, fweet Bard, thy heavenly song
Enchants us here no more;
Their darling glory loft too long
Thy once-lov'd shades deplore.

IV.

Yet ftill, for beauteous Greville's fake,
The Mufes here remain;
Greville, whofe eyes have power to make
A Pope of every swain.

E P I G R A M.

NONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair:

But Love can hope, where Reason would despair.

To Mr. WEST, at WICKHAM *.

Written in the Year 1740.

AIR Nature's sweet fimplicity,

FA

With elegance refin’d,

Well in thy feat, my friend, 1 fee,

But better in thy mind.

To both, from courts and all their state,

Eager I fly, to prove

Joys far above a Courtier's fate,

Tranquillity and Love.

See the Infcriptions in Mr. Weft's Poems.

Ta

TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE.

O

NCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd

I fung my amorous strains :

No ferious love my bofom fir'd;
Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd,
The idly-mournful tale believ'd,.
And wept my fancied pains.

But Venus now, to punish me
For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart fo fond of thee,
That not the whole Aonian choir
Can accents foft enough infpire,,

Its real flame to tell.

TO THE SAME;

WITH.

HAMMOND'S ELEGIE S

A

LL that of Love can be exprefs'd,

In these foft numbers fee;

But, Lucy, would you know the reft,

It must be read in me..

T

TO THE SAM E.

O him who in an hour muft die,
Not swifter feems that hour to fly,
Than flow the minutes feem to me,
Which keep me from the fight of thee.

Not more that trembling wretch would give,
Another day or year to live;

Than I to fhorten what remains

Of that long hour which thee detains.

Oh! come to my impatient arms,

Oh! come, with all thy heavenly charms,

At once to justify and pay

The pain I feel from this delay.

TO THE SAME.

I.

Teafe my troubled mind of anxious care,.

Last night the fecret cafket I explor'd,

Where all the letters of my absent fair
(His richest treasure) careful Love had ftor'd:

II.

In every word a magic spell I found

Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond defire still throbbing in my breast..

III.

So to his hoarded gold the mifer fteals,
And lofes every forrow at the fight;
Yet wishes ftill for more, nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or fecure delight.

IV.

Ah! fhould I lofe thee, my too lovely maid,
Couldst thou forget thy heart was ever mine,
Fear not thy letters should the change upbraid;
My hand each dear memorial fhall refign

V.

Not one kind word fhall in my power remain,
A painful witnefs of reproach to thee;

And left my heart fhould still their sense retain,
My heart fhall break, to leave thee wholly free,

A PRAYER TO VENUS, IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE.

TO THE SAME.

I.

FAIR Venus, whofe delightful fhrine furveys

Its front reflected in the filver lake,

These humble offerings, which thy fervant pays,
Fresh flowers, and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.

II. If