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Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day ;While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of, or feen, Unless when beneath the pale moon,

His ghost shall glide over the green.

REPLY, BY

ANOTHER HAND.

I.
YE
E winds to whom Colin complains,

In ditties fo fad and so sweet,
Believe me, the shepherd but feigns

He's wretched, to shew he has wit.
No charmer like Colin can move,

And this is fome pretty new art; .
Ah! Colin 's a jugler in love,
And likes to play tricks with my

heart,

II.
When he will, he can sigh and look pale,

Seem doleful and alter his face,
Can tremble, and alter his tale,

Ah! Colin has every pace :
The willow my rover prefers

To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie
And the stream, that he swells with his tears,
Are rivals belov'd niore than I.

III. Hi

F 3

III.

His head my fond bosom would bear,

And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair,

But Colin is only in jest: No death the deceiver designs,

Let the maid that is ruin’d despair ; For Colin but dies in his lines,

And gives himself that modifh air.

IV.

Can shepherds, bred far from the court,

So wittily talk of their flame? But Colin makes passion his sport,

Beware of fo fatal a game: My voice of no music can boast,

Nor my person of ought that is fine, But Colin may find, to his cost,

A face that is fairer than mine.

V.

Ah! then I will break

my

lov'd crook, To thee I 'll bequeath all my sheep, And die in the much-favour'd brook,

Where Colin does now sit and weep : Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,

In sonnets so smooth and divine ; Perhaps, I may

rise from my grave, To hear such soft music as thine.

VI.
Of the violet, daisy, and rose,

The hearts-ease, the lily, and pink,
Did thy fingers a garland compose,

And crown'd by the rivulet's brink; How oft, my dear swain, did I swear,

How much my fond love did admire Thy verses, thy shape, and thy air,

Though deck'd in thy rural attire !

VII.

Your sheep-hook you ruld with such art,

That all your small subjects obey'd ; And still you reign’d king of this heart,

Whose passion you falsely upbraid ;
How often, my swain, have I said,

Thy arms are a palace to me,
And how well I could live in a shade,
Though adorned with nothing but thee!

VIII.
Oh! what are the sparks of the town,

Though never so fine and so gay?
I freely would leave beds of down,

For thy breast on a bed of new hay :
Then, Colin, return once again,

Again make me happy in love,
Let me find thee a faithful true swain,
And as constant a nymph I will prove..

EPIGRAM

E 4

E P I GRAM

ON A LADY WHO SHED HER WATER AT SEEING

THE TRAGEDY OF CATO; OCCASIONED BY AN EPIGRAM ON A LADY WHO WEPT AT IT.

HILSTraudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate,

Still with dry eyes the Tory Celia sate : But though her pride forbade her eyes to flow, The guling waters found a vent below, Though secret yet with copious streams she mourns, Like twenty River-Gods with all their urns. Let others screw an hypocritic face, She Mews her grief in a sincerer place! Here Nature reigns, and passion void of art; For this road leads directly to the heart.

JMITATED IN LATIN.

PLORAT fata fui dum cætera turba Catonis,

Eccę! oculis ficcis Cælia fixa sedet;
At quanquam lacrymis faftus vetat ora rigari,

Invenêre viam quâ per opaca iluant :
Clam dolet illa quidem, manat tamen humor abundè,

Numinis ex urna, ceu fluvialis aqua.
Distorquent aliæ vultus, fimulantque dolorem :

Quæ magè fincera est Cælia parte dolet.
Quâ mera natura est, non personata per artem,

Quâque itur rectâ cordis ad ima viả.

MÆCENAS.

M Æ CE N A S.

VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER

RED ON THE

RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF

HALIFAX, 1714; BEING THAT YEAR INSTALLED KNIGHT OF THE

MOST NOELE ORDER OF THE GARTER.

PHOEBUS and

Cæsar once confpir'd to grace
A noble knight, of ancient Tuscan race.
The monarch, greatly conscious of his worth,
From books and his retirement call'd him forth;
Adorn’d the patriot with the Civic crown,
The Consul's Faices and Patrician gown :
The worid's whole wealth he gave him to bestow,
And teach the streams of treaíure where to flow :
To him he bade the suppliant nations come,
And on his counsels fix'd the fate of Rome.

The God of Wit, who taught him first to fing,
And tune high numbers to the vocal string,
With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king.

Forbear, he cry'd, to rob me of my fare;
Our common favourite is our common care.
Honours and wealth thy grateful hand may give;
But Phoebus only bids the poet live.
The service of his faithful heart is thine;
There let thy Julian Star an emblem shine;
His mind, and her imperial feat are mine.
Then bind his brow, ye Thespian maids, he said :
The willing Muses the command obey'd,
And wove the deathless laurel for his head.

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