If less my love exceeds all other love,
Than Lucy's charms all other charms excel, Far from my breast each foothing hope remove, And there let fad Despair for ever dwell.
But if my foul is fill'd with her alone;
No other wish, nor other object knows;:
Oh! make her, Goddess, make her all my own,
And give my trembling heart secure repose!
No watchful spies I ask, to guard her charms,
No walls of brass, no steel-defended door:
Place her but once within my circling arms,
Love's furest fort, and I will doubt no more..
ON HER PLEADING WANT OF TIME..
N Thames's bank, a gentle youth
For Lucy figh'd, with matchless truth,,
Ev'n when he figh'd in rhyme;
The lovely maid his flame return'd,
And would with equal warmth have burn'd
But that she had not time..
Oft he repair'd with eager feet
In secret shades his fair to meet,
Beneath th accustom'd lime:
She would have fondly met him there,.
And heal'd with love each tender care,
But that she had not time.
"It was not thus, inconstant maid!
"You acted once," (the shepherd faid)
"When love was in its prime:""
She griev'd to hear him thus complain;
And would have writ, to ease his pain,
But that she had not time.
How can you act so cold a part?
No crime of mine has chang'd your heart,
If love be not a crime. -
We foon must part for months, for years-
She would have answer'd with her tears,
But that she had not time.
OUR shape, your lips, your eyes, are still the
Still the bright object of my constant flame;
But where is now the tender glance, that stole,
With gentle sweetness, my enchanted foul ?
Kind fears, impatient wishes, soft defires,
Each melting charm that Love alone inspires?
These, these are loft; and I behold no more
The maid, my heart delighted to adore.
Yet, still unchang'd, still doating to excess,
I ought, but dare not try, to love you less;
Weakly I grieve, unpitied I complain;
But not unpunish'd shall your change remain ;
For you, cold maid, whom no complaints can move,
Were far more blest, when you like me could love.
I think on your truth, I doubt you no
I blame all the fears I gave way to before :
I say to my heart, " Be at rest, and believe
"That whom once she has chosen she never will leave."
But, ah! when I think on each ravishing grace
That plays in the smiles of that heavenly face;
My heart beats again; I again apprehend
Some fortunate rival in every friend.
These painful fufpicions you cannot remove,
Since you neither can lessen your charms nor my love;
But doubts caus'd by paffion you never can blame;
For they are not ill founded, or you feel the fame.
TO THE SAME;
WITH A NEW WATCH.
ITH me while present, may thy lovely eyes
Be never turn'd upon this golden toy :
W
Think every pleasing hour too swiftly flies;
And measure time, by joy succeeding joy!
But when the cares that interrupt our blifs
To me not always will thy fight allow;
Then oft with kind impatience look on this,
Then every minute count-as I do now.
WRITTEN AT WICKHAM IN 1746.
TO THE SAME.
Y
E fylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham, fay,
What is the charm that each successive year,
Which fees me with my Lucy here,
Can thus to my transported heart
A fenfe of joy unfelt before impart?
Is it glad Summer's balmy breath, that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rofe?
Her balmy breath, and all her blooming store
Of rural blifs, was here before :
Oft have I met her on the verdant fide
Of Norwood-hill, and in the yellow meads,
Where Pan the dancing Graces leads,
Array'd in all her flowery pride.
No sweeter fragrance now the gardens yield,
No brighter colours paint th' enamel'd field.
Is it to Love these new delights I owe?
Four times has the revolving fun
His annual circle through the zodiac run;
Since all that Love's indulgent power
"On' favour'd mortals can bestow,
Was given to me in this auspicious bower.
Here first my Lucy, sweet in virgin charms,
Was yielded to my longing arms;
And round our nuptial bed,
Hovering with purple wings, th' Idalian boy
Shook from his radiant torch the blissful fires
While Venus scatter'd myrtles o'er her head.
Whence then this strange increase of joy
He, only he, can tell, who, match'd like me,
(If fuch another happy man there be)
Has by his own experience tried
How much the wife is dearer than the bride.
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