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Whene'er he speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear ;
No other wit but hers approve;
Tell me my heart if this be love?

If the fome other swain commend,
Tho' I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove,
Tell me my heart if this be love?

When she is abfent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;
Tell me my heart if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every fwain,
I strove to hate, but vainly ftrove;
Tell me my heart if this be love ?

LYTTELTON

1

A

H! why must words my flame reveal ?

Why needs my Damon bid me tell,
What all

my
actions

prove?
A blush whene'er I meet his eye,
Whene’er I hear his name, a sigh

Betrays my secret love.

In all their sports upon the plain
Mine
eyes

still fix'd on him remain,
And him alone approve ;
The rest unheeded dance or play,
From all he steals my praise away,
And can he doubt

my

love?

Whene'er we meet, my looks confess
The joys that all my soul poffefs,

And every care remove;
Still, 'ftill too short appears his stay,
The moments fly too fast away,
Too fast for

my

fond love.

Does

Does any speak in Damon's praise,
So pleas'd am I with all he says,
I every

word approve ;
But is he blam’d, although in jest,
I feel resentment fire my breast,

Alas! because I love,

But ah! what tortures tear my heart,
When I fufpect his looks impart

The least desire to rove!
I hate the maid that gives me pain,
Yet him to hate I strive in vain,

For ah! that hate is love.

Then ask not words, but read mine eyes,
Believe my blushes, trust my fighs,

My paffion these will prove;
Words oft deceive and spring from art,
The true expressions of my heart

To Damon, must be love,

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OME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be
That boasts to love as well as me,

And

And if thy breast have felt fo wide a wound,

Come hither and thy flame approve;

I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bath'd in tears,

To live upon a smile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;

To kneel, to languish and implore,

And still tho' fhe disdain, adore ; It is to do all this and think thy sufferings sweet.

It is to gaze upon her

eyes With eager joy and fond surprize, Yet temper’d with such chaste and awful fear

As wretches feel who wait their doom ;

Nor must one ruder thought presume Tho' but in whispers breath’d, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, tho' hope were lost,

Tho' heaven and earth thy passion croft ; Tho' the were bright as fainted queens above,

And thou the least and meaneit swain

That folds his flock upon the plain,
Yet if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love.

It

It is to quench thy joy in tears,

To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears ; If pangs of jealousy thou haft not prov'd,

Tho' she were fonder and more true

Than any nymph old poets drew,
Oh never dream again that thou haft lov’d.

If when the darling maid is gone,

Thou dost not seek to be alone,
Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe;

And mufe, and fold thy languid arms,

Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so.

If any hopes thy bosom fare

But those which love has planted there,
Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,
Thou never
yet

haft known;
Love fits on a despotic throne,
And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

his power

Now if thou art so lost a thing,

Here all thy tender forrows bring,
And prove whose patience longest can endure ;

We'll

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