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And, in his absence, all the pensive day
In fome obscure retreat I lonely stray ;
All day to the repeating caves complain,
In mournful accents, and a dying strain;
Dear lovely youth, I cry to all around ;
Dear lovely youth, the flattering vales resound.

On flowery banks, by every murmuring stream,
Aminta is my Muse's foftest theme:
'Tis the that does my artful notes refine :
With fair Aminta's name my noblest verfe shall shine.

AMARYLLIS. I'll twine fresh garlands for Alexis' brows, And confecrate to him eternal vows : The charming youth shall my Apollo prove ; He shall adorn my songs, and tune my voice to lore.

To the Author of the foregoing PASTORAL, BY Sylvia if thy

charming self be meant;
If Friendfhip be thy virgin vows extent ;
Oh! let me in Aminta's praises join :

my efteem shall be, my passion thine.
When for thy head the garland I prepare,
A second wreath thall bind Aminta's hair ;
And, when my choicest songs thy worth proclaim,
Alternate verse shall bless Aminta's name;
My heart shall own the justice of her cause,
And Love himself submit to Friendship's laws.


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But, if, beneath thy numbers' soft disguise,
Some favour'd swain, some true Alexis lies ;
If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains,
And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains;
May'st thou, howe'er I grieve, for ever find
The flame propitious, and the lover kind!
May Venus long exert her happy power,
And make thy beauty, like thy verse, endure !
May every god his friendly aid afford,
Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board !

But, if by chance the series of thy joys
Permit one thought less chearful to arise,
Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,
Who, loving much, who, not belov'd again,
Feels an ill-fated passion's last excess,
And dies in woe, that thou may'st live in peace.



She refusing to continue a Dispute with

meg and leaving me in the ARGUMENT,

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PARE, generous vi&tor, spare the slave,

Who did unequal war pursue ;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.


II. In

In the dispute whate’er I said,

My heart was by iny tongue belied ;
And in


you might have read How much I argued on your


You, far from danger as from fear,

Might have sustain's an open fight :
For seldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd ?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight afpir'd :
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desir’d.

But she, howe'er of vi&tory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd :
And, arm’d with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.

Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight ;

She drops her arms, to gain the field ;
Secures her conquest by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield.


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So, when the Parthian turn'd his steed,

And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed

He sent; and, as he fed, he New.

Seeing the Duke of Ormond's Picture

at Sir Godfrey KNELLER'S.



UT from the injur'd canvas, Kneller, strike

These lines too faint: the picture is not like. Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again : Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain Place Ormond's duke: impendent in the air Let his keen fabre, comet-like, appear, Where'er it points, denouncing death: below Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe, Falling beneath, or flying from his blow: Till, weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood Which from the Patriot's breast in torrents flow'd, Hc faints; his steed no longer feels the rein ; But stumbles o'er the heap, his hand had sain. And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies ; Lovely, fad object ! in his half-clos'd eyes Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand : His front yet threatens, and his frowns command. The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call; Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.

O Kneller,

F 3

O Kneller, could thy shades and lights express
The perfect hero in that glorious dress;
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow :
In spite of time, thy work might ever shine;
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.


“ Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summéque secundo 66 Inveniuntur.-"

Lucret. lib. iv,


HAT can I say, what arguments can prove

My truth, what colours can describe my love,
If its excess and fury be not known,
In what thy Celia has already done?

Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were conceald
In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld;
With easy smiles dispelld the filene fear,
That durst not tell me what I dy'd to hear.
In vain I ftrove to check my growing fame,
Or shelter passion under friendship’s name:
You saw my heart, how it my tongue bely'd ;
And when you press'd, how faintly I deny'd.

Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter'd aid,
Ere reason could support the doubting maid,
My foul surpriz’d, and from herself disjoin'd,
Left all reserve, and all the fex, behind :


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