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They tell me 'tis decided; you depart

They sin who tell us love can die

They tell me, gentle lady, that they deck thee for a bride

They that never had the use....

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Think not 'cause men flattering say

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This nforn with trembling I awoke

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Those eyes, those eyes, how full of heaven they are
Tho' Delia oft retires

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Thou sleep'st while the eyes of the planets are watching.

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Upon her cheek the eye may trace
Upwards rose the joyful music...........
Victorious love, thou sacred mystery.
Venus, most histories agree

Wake, oh wake! the morning star...
Wealth with golden key, once sought..
We met when hope and life were new
We read together, reading the same book..
We shall not rest together, love!.....

We were to meet at sunset down the lane
Welcome to the new-born year!
Well! here's a situation...
Well! thou art happy, and I feel

What of you and me, my lady

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Whilst well-wrote lines our wondering eyes command..

Why, I could give you fact and argument

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Wonder not, faithless woman, if you see

Ye are stars of the night, ye are gems of the morn

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Ye banks and braes, and streams around

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Young Juan and his lady-love were left...

Your compliments, dear lady, pray forbear..

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You took me, Henry, when a girl, into your home and heart..

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THE

LOVERS' DICTIONARY.

SHE

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ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON.

HE came-she is gone-we have met-
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain ;
Catharina has fled like a dream,
So vanishes pleasure, alas!
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.

The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,

Our progress was often delayed

By the nightingale warbling nigh.

We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charmed with a tone

Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed her own.

My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,

As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

The longer I heard, I esteemed

The work of my fancy the more,

And even to myself never seemed
So tuneful a poet before.

Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,

Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

Than aught that the city can show.

So it is when the mind is imbued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellished or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight.

Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess

The scene of her sensible choice!

To inhabit a mansion remote

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,

And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads!

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire,
As oft as it suits her to roam,

She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.

Cowper.

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