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Then to her new love let her go,

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

And frolic it all the long day ;-
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more fhall be talk'd of, or feen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.

ANOTHER HAND.

REPLY, BY

I.

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E winds to whom Colin complains,
In ditties fo fad and fo fweet,
Believe me, the shepherd but feigns
He's wretched, to fhew 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 figh 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 ftream, that he fwells with his tears,
Are rivals belov'd more than I.

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III.

His head my fond bosom would bear,
And my heart would soon beat him to reft;
Let the fwain that is flighted despair,
But Colin is only in jeft:
No death the deceiver defigns,

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

And gives himself that modifh air.

IV.

Can fhepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes paffion his fport,
Beware of fo fatal a game:

My voice of no music can boast,

Nor my perfon of ought that is fine,

But Colin may find, to his coft,

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 fit and weep:
Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,
In fonnets fo fmooth and divine;
Perhaps, I may rife from my grave,
To hear fuch foft mufic as thine.

VI.

Of the violet, daify, and rose,
The hearts-eafe, the lily, and pink,
Did thy fingers a garland compofe,

And crown'd by the rivulet's brink;
How oft, my dear fwain, did I fwear,
How much my fond love did admire
Thy verfes, thy thape, and thy air,
Though deck'd in thy rural attire!

VII.

Your sheep-hook you rul'd with fuch art,
That all your small subjects obey'd;
And ftill you reign'd king of this heart,
Whose paffion you falfely 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 fparks of the town,
Though never fo fine and fo gay?
I freely would leave beds of down,
For thy breaft on a bed of new hay:
Then, Colin, return once again,
Again make me happy in love,

Let me find thee a faithful true fwain,
And as conftant a nymph I will prove.

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EPIGRAM

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

HILSTmaudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate,
Still with dry eyes the Tory Celia fate :

W Still fate:

But though her pride forbade her eyes to flow,
The gufhing waters found a vent below,
Though fecret yet with copious ftreams fhe mourns,
Like twenty River-Gods with all their urns.

Let others fcrew an hypocritic face,
She fhews her grief in a fincerer place!
Here Nature reigns, and paffion void of art;
For this road leads directly to the heart.

IMITATED IN LATIN.

PLORAT fata fui dum cætera turba Catonis,

Ecce! oculis ficcis Cælia fixa fedet; At quanquam lacrymis faftus vetat ora rigari, Invenêre viam quâ per opaca fluant: Clam dolet illa quidem, manat tamen humor abundè, Numinis ex urnâ, ceu fluvialis aqua. Diftorquent aliæ vultus, fimulantque dolorem :

Quæ magè fincera eft Cælia parte dolet. Quâ mera natura eft, non perfonata per artem, Quâque itur rectâ cordis ad ima viâ.

MECENAS.

MECE NA 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 Cæfar once confpir'd to grace

A noble knight, of ancient Tuscan race.
The monarch, greatly confcious of his worth,
From books and his retirement call'd him forth;
Adorn'd the patriot with the Civic crown,
The Conful's Fafces and Patrician gown:
The world's whole wealth he gave him to bestow,
And teach the ftreams of treasure where to flow:
To him he bade the fuppliant nations come,
And on his counfels fix'd the fate of Rome.
The God of Wit, who taught him first to fing,
And tune high numbers to the vocal ftring,
With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king.
Forbear, he cry'd, to rob me of my share;
Our common favourite is our common care.
Honours and wealth thy grateful hand may give ;
But Phoebus only bids the poet live.

The fervice 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 Thefpian maids, he said:

The willing Mufes the command obey'd,
And wove the deathlefs laurel for his head.

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