When fummer funs fhine forth no more, And winter drives us from the field? Yet faithful then the fir fhall last I fmile, fhe cry'd, but ah! I tremble, To think when my fair season's past, Which Damon then will moft resemble. ANSWER. OO tim'rous maid, can time or chance O lay afide that tender glance, That melts my frame, that kills my foul! Were but thy outward charms admir'd, Frail origin of female fway! My flame like other flames inspir'd, But But whilst thy mind shall seem thus fair, Thy foul's unfading charms be feen, Thou may'ft refign that shape and air, But shall I make the angry vow, Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend! no more Let me be cheated o'er and o'er, But let me ftill confide. If If this be folly, all my claim But let no fage presume to name LYSANDER to CLOE. IS true, my wish will never find "TIS Another nymph fo fair, so true; Since all that's bright, and all that's kind, In thofe expreffive eyes I view. And I with grateful zeal could haste But fickle as the wave or wind, I once may flight those lovely arms; Pardon a free ingenuous mind, I do not half deserve thy charms. If I in any praise excel, 'Tis in foft themes to paint my flame; But Cloe's sweetness bids me tell, I fhall not long remain the fame. I know its feafon will expire, This interval my fate allows, And friendship dictates all I fay; O fhun to hear my future vows, When giddy love refumes the lay. So fome poor maniac can foresee The random hours of madness nigh; CLOE CLOE to LYSANDER. F vagrant loves, and fickle flames And fure fuch artlefs freedom claims His Cloe's best farewel. Whene'er his heart becomes the theme We fee his fancy shine; But let not vain Lyfander dream That e'er that heart was mine. Can he that fondly hopes to move, Can he who feels the power of love, Why teize believing nymphs in vain? Go feek fome pathless vale, And listen to thy vocal strain Soft echoing down the dale. |