Is it, becaufe II. you fear to share The ills that Love moleft; The jealous doubt, the tender care, III. Alas! by fome degree of woe We every blifs must gain : V E R SE S, Written at Mr. POPE's Houfe at Twickenham, which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE. In Auguft, 1735. I. Go, Thames, and tell the busy town, Not all its wealth or pride Could tempt me from the charms that crown II. Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd · The Mufes' green retreat, With every fmile of Nature grac'd, - With every art complete. III. But now, fweet Bard, thy heavenly song Their darling glory lost too long Yet ftill, for beauteous Greville's fake, A Pope of every fwain. EPIGRAM. NONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair: But Love can hope, where Reafon would despair. To Mr. WEST, at WICKHAM *. Written in the Year 1740. AIR Nature's sweet simplicity, FA With elegance refin'd, Well in thy feat, my friend, 1 fee, But better in thy mind. To both, from courts and all their state, Eager I fly, to prove Joys far above a Courtier's fate, Tranquillity and Love. See the Infcriptions in Mr. Weft's Poems. Το TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE. ONCE, by the Mufe alone inspir'd I fung my amorous strains : No ferious love my bofom fir'd; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd, The idly-mournful tale believ'd, But Venus now, to punish me TO THE SAME; WITH HAMMON D'S ELE GIE S. A LL that of Love can be exprefs'd, In thefe foft numbers fee; But, Lucy, would you know the reft, It must be read in me. T TO THE SAME.. O him who in an hour muft die, Not swifter feems that hour to fly, Than flow the minutes feem to me, Which keep me from the fight of thee. Not more that trembling wretch would give,.. Than I to fhorten what remains Of that long hour which thee detains. Oh! come to my impatient arms, Oh! come, with all thy heavenly charms, At once to justify and pay The pain I feel from this delay. TO THE SAME. I. Teafe my troubled mind of anxious care, Where all the letters of my absent fair II. In every word a magic fpell I found Of power to charm each bufy thought to reft; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond defire still throbbing in my breast. III. So III. So to his hoarded gold the mifer fteals, IV. Ah! fhould I lofe thee, my too lovely maid, V. Not one kind word fhall in my power remain, A PRAYER TO VENUS, IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE. TO THE SAM E. I. FAIR Venus, whofe delightful fhrine furveys Its front reflected in the filver lake, Thefe humble offerings, which thy fervant pays,. |