Make it fo large, that, fill'd with fack Like ships at fea, may fwim. Engrave not battle on his cheek; With war I've nought to do; IV. Let it no name of planets tell, Fix'd ftars, or conftellations: For I am no Sir Sidrophel, Nor none of his relations. V. But carve thereon a spreading vine; Then add two lovely boys; Their limbs in amorous folds intwine, The type of future joys. VI. Cupid VI. Cupid and Bacchus my faints, are. A S O N G. 1. S Chloris full of harmlefs thoughts Kind Love a youthful shepherd brought, II. She blush'd to be encounter'd fo, III. A fudden paffion feiz'd her heart, She found a pulse in every part, And love in every vein. IV. Ah, youth! (faid fhe) what charms are thefe, That conquer and furprize? Ah! let me----for, unless you pleafe, I have no power to rise. V. She V. You that could my heart fubdue, And of a conquer'd foe a friend. I Cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor fwain that fighs for you, No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A furer way I'll try; And, to revenge my flighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die. II. When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies, And you to mind fhall call The fighs that now unpity'd rife, The tears that vainly fall: That That welcome hour that ends this fmart, For fuch a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain. MY Soft as thofe kind looks fhe gave me, When, with love's refiftlefs art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her conftancy's fo weak, She 's fo wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder. II. Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding bliffes : She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can warm with kiffes. Angels liften when the speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder But my jealous heart would break, A LETTER From ARTEMISA in the Town, C LOE, by your command in verfe I write ; Proudly defigning large returns of praise; Who durft that ftormy pathless world explore, Were foon dafh'd back, and wreck'd on the dull fhore, Your Mufe diverts you, makes the reader fad ; To make yourself the fiddle of the town. you To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need : Curs'd when you fail, and scorn'd when you fucceed. Thus, |