How oft, what I felt to difguife,
Has my reafon imperiously ftrove,
Till my foul almost fell from my eyes,
In the tears of the tendereft love!

Till render'd unable to flow,

By the tortures excefs which I bore,
That nature funk under the wo,
Or only recover'd to more.

Then, Delia, determine my fate,
Nor let me to madness be drove ;
But, O do not tell me you hate,

If

you e'en refolve not to love.

SONG 252.

Ceafe to mourn, unhappy youth!

Or think this bofom hard :

My tears, alas! muft own your truth, And with it could reward.

Th' excess of unabating wo,

This tortur'd breast endures, Too well, alas! must make me know The pain that dwells in yours.

Condemn'd like you to weep in vain, I feek the darkest grove,

And fondly bear the sharpeft pain
Of never-hoping love.

My wafted day, in endless fighs,
No found of comfort hears;
And morn but breaks on Delia's eyes
To wake her into tears.

If fleep fhou'd lend her friendly aid,
In fancy I complain,

And hear some fad, some wretched maid,
Or fee fome perjur'd swain.

Then cease thy fuit, fond youth, O cease!
Or blame the fates alone;

For how can I reftore your peace,
Who quite have loft my own?

SONG 253.

WHEN Delia's eyes transfix'd my heart

With one refiftless glance,

'Twas Love himself that aim'd the dart, Tho' mortals call it Chance.

'Twas at the fatal birth-night ball

I faw her lead the dance;

(Long deaf to youth and beauty's call, I thither ftroll'd by chance.)

I faw her, like the Queen of love,
With graceful step advance;
She feem'd a partner fit for Jove,
Had Jove been there by chance.

No hireling nymph that treads the stage,
From Italy or France,

Could thus my raptur'd fight engage,
As Delia did by chance.

The ftars that in fuch order move,
Amid'ft heav'ns wide expanfe,
Match'd with the motions of my love,
Might feem the work of chance.

As, when the fpur is in his fide,
The fiery fteed will prance,
I ftruggled long my love to hide ;
But who can ftrive with chance?

With wonder as I ftood amaz'd,
Methought the look'd askance,
And fmil'd upon me as I gaz'd;
But, ah! 'twas all by chance.

To raife my fpirits, I retir'd,
And took a dram of Nantz;

But, oh! I found my breast more fir'd"Twere better truft to chance.

As to and fro I ftroll'd about,
Wrapt up in amorous trance,

I tripp'd, and fell; the nymph, no doubt, But fmil'd at my mifchance.

While thus I languifh and look fad,

Like hero in romance,

You, lovely Delia, think me mad,
Nor pity me, perchance.

Yet for your fake, with any knight
That dares, I'll break a lance-
And if I perish in the fight,

Why-let me take my

chance.

Would Delia but my wishes crown,
Nought could my blifs enhance ;
Content for life, I'd fit me down,
And bless this lucky chance.

SONG 254.

DEFEND my heart, ye virgin pow'rs,

From am'rous looks and fmiles;
And shield me, in my gayer hours,
From love's deftru&tive wiles:
In vain let fighs and melting tears
Employ their moving art,

Nor may delufive oaths and pray'rs
E'er triumph in my heart.

Let others, fond of empty praise,

Each wanton art display,
While fops and fools in raptures gaze,
And figh their fouls away:
Far other dictates I purfue,

(My blifs in virtue plac'd), And feek to please the wifer few, Who real worth can tafte.

To fly, like bird, from grove to grove,
To wander like the bee;

To fip of fweets, and taste of love,
Is not enough for me :

No flutt'ring paffions wake my breast;
I wish the place to find,

Where fate may give me peace and reft,
One fhepherd to my mind.

To ev'ry youth I'll not be gay,
Nor try on all my pow'r;
Nor future pleafures throw away,
In toyings for an hour.

I would not reign the general toaft,
Be prais'd by all the town;
A thoufand tongues on me are loft,
I'll hear but only one.

For which of all the flatt'ring train,

Who fwarm at beauty's fhrine,

When youth's gay charms are in the wane, Will court their fure decline?