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When summer suns shine forth no more,
Will then this lime its shelter yield ?. Protect us when the tempests roar,
And winter drives us from the field ?
Yet faithful then the fir fhall last
I smile, she cry'd, but ah! I tremble, To think when my fair season's past,
Which Damon then will most resemble.
TOO tim'rous maid, can time or chance
A pure ingenuous mind controul ? O lay aside that tender glance,
That melts my frame, that kills my soul !
Were but thy outward charms admir'd,
Frail origin of female fway!
Might then like other flames decay :
But whilst thy mind shall seem thus fair, · Thy foul's unfading charms be seen, Thou may'st resign that shape and air,
Yet find thy swain - an ever-green.
THE warmest friend, I ever provid,
My bitterest foe I fee : The kindeft maid I ever lov’d,
Is false to love and me.
But shall I make the angry vow,
Which tempts my wavering mind ? Shall dark suspicion cloud my brow,
And bid me shun mankind ?
Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend ! no more
Pretend my steps to guide ; Let me be cheated o'er and o'er,
But let me still confide.
If this be folly, all my claim
To wisdom I resign;
His happiness with minc.
L Y SANDER to CLO. E.
IT IS true, my wish will never find
1 Another nymph so fair, so true; Since all that's bright, and all that's kind,
In those expressive eyes I view.
And I with grateful zeal could haste
To China for the merest toy ;
To give my dear a moment's joy.
But fickle as the wave or wind,
I once may Night those lovely arms ;
I do not half deserve thy charms.
If I in any praise excel,
'Tis in soft themes to paint my flame; But Cloe's sweetness bids me tell,
I shall not long remain the same.
I know its season will expire,
Replac'd by cool esteem alone; Nor more thy matchless breast admire
Than I detest and scorn my own.
This interval my fate allows,
And friendship dictates all I say; O thun to hear my future vows,
When giddy love resumes the lay.
So fome poor maniac can foresee.
The random hours of madness nigh; He mourns the fates' severe decree,
And cautions whom he loves to fly.
O F vagrant loves, and fickle flames
Lysander's Muse may tell,
His Cloe's best farewel.
Whene'er his heart becomes the theme
We see his fancy shine ; But let not vain Lysander dream ; That e'er that heart was mine..
Can he that fondly hopes to move,
With caution chill his lay? . .
Foretel that love's decay?
Why teize believing nymphs in vain ?
Go seek fome pathless vale,
Soft echoing down the dale.