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Or if a Pilgrim you wou'd pay your Vows,
Where Jordan's Stream in soft Meanders flows:
I'll be a Pilgrim, and my Vows I'll pay
Where Jordan's Streams in soft Meanders play.

But whence these sudden sad presaging Fears, These risingSighs and whence these flowing Tears: Ah! least the Trumpets terrible alarms Have drawn the Lover from his Cælia's Charms, Totry th’doubtful Field, and shine in azureArms. Ah! can’st thou bear the labours of the War,

[Spear. Or bend the Warrior's Bow, or dart the pointed Defift, fond Youth, let others Glory gain, And follow Honour o'er the distant Main, Or rush in dreadful Armsimpetuous to the Plain. Thee, Shepherd, thee the pleasurable Woods, 2 The painted Meadows, and the Crystal Floods, Claim, and invite thee to their sweet Abodes.

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192 Miscellaneous Poems and
There shady Bow'rs, and Sylvan Scenes arise,
There Fountains warble, and the Spring supplies
Or Flow'rs to pleafe the Smellor charm the Eyes.
But mourn ye Sylvan Scenes, and shady Bow'rs,
Weep all ye Fountains, languish all ye Flow'rs;
If in a Desart Damon but appear,
To Calia’s Eyes a Desart is more fair
Than all your Charms when Damon is not there.
Gods! what soft Words,what sweet delusive Wiles
Pleas'd with our Ruin to his "Arms we run:
To be undone by him, who wou'd not be undone?

.

But die, 0.wretched Celià, die! In vain
Thus to the Fields and Floods you tell your Pain;
Vain is each Tear, and useless is each Sigh,
And Life a load; forsaken Cælia die!

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Forlorn! abandon’dl to the Rocks I go,
But they have learn'd new Cruelties of you!
Relenting Echo only with me mourns,
And, faint with Grief, she scarce my Sighs returns.
Pity, kind Heav'n, and right an injur'd Maid
Yet O! yet spare the dear Deceiver’s Head!
If o'er the Waves he cuts the liquid way,
Be still, ye Waves, and round his Vessel play!
And you, ye Winds, confine each ruder Breath,
Lye hush'd in Silence, and be calm as Death.
But if he stay detain’d by adverfe Gales,
My Sighs shall drive the Ship, and fill the flagging

(Sails.

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Τ Η Ε.

SCHOOL of WIT,

A T A L E.

By a Young Gentleman.

T:

HERE is a Game,which learn'd with Care,

Brings Wit and Pleasure to the Fair;
Blows

up betimes the Sparks of Reason,
And all the Year this Sport's in Season.
Young Damsels often it employs
Both Night and Day, yet never cloys.
Miss plays it briskeft with a Lover;
A Husband can't so much improve her.

By

By what I've said to explain this Game,
It can't be hard to guess its Name;
At least to understand what's meant:
So I'll go on with my Intent,
And thew how Wit may be convey'd,
And Sense infus'd in harmless Maid.

Before young Lucy knew this School,
Lucy was but a simple Soul ;
To weave Bone-lace, knit, spin, or sew,
Was all, that Lucy then could do:
Thus she employ'd her Hands all Day;
All Night she us’d to sleep, or pray,
And dully pass’d her Hours away,
Her Head from every Thought was free,
And Baby dream'd as oft as she.
Sorrow or Grief she knew no other,
But what came from her loving Mother;

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