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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.

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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!
My flame like other flames inspir'd,

Might then like other flames decay :

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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.

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THE warmest friend, I ever provid,

My bitterest foe I fee : The kindeft maid I ever lov’d,

Is false to love and me.

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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;
But let no fage presume to name

His happiness with minc.



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.

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And I with grateful zeal could haste

To China for the merest toy ;
Could scorch on Lybia's barren waste,

To give my dear a moment's joy.

But fickle as the wave or wind,

I once may Night those lovely arms ;
Pardon a free ingenuous mind,

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.

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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.


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O F vagrant loves, and fickle flames

Lysander's Muse may tell,
And sure such artless freedom claims

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..

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Can he that fondly hopes to move,

With caution chill his lay? . .
Can he who feels the power of love,

Foretel that love's decay?

Why teize believing nymphs in vain ?

Go seek fome pathless vale,
And listen to thy vocal strain

Soft echoing down the dale.

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