Make it so large, that, fill'd with fack Up to the fwelling brim, Vast toafts on the delicious lake, Like ships at sea, may fwim. 111. Engrave not battle on his cheek; With war I've nought to do; IV. Let it no name of planets tell, For I am no Sir Sidrophel, V. But carve thereon a spreading vine; VI. Cupid A I. S Chloris full of harmless thoughts Kind Love a youthful shepherd brought, To pass the time away. Ah, youth! (faid she) what charms are these, That conquer and surprize? Ah! let me----for, unless you please, I have no power to rife. V. You that could my heart subdue, To new conquests ne'er pretend : Let th' example make me true, And of a conquer'd foe a friend. I Cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that fighs for you, No, Phillis, no, your heart to move 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 shall call The fighs that now unpity'd rise, The tears that vainly fall : That welcome hour that ends this smart, Can never break, can never break in vain. MY dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When, with love's refistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me. But her constancy 's so weak, She 's fo wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder. 11. Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses : She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can warm with kisses. Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, A LETTER From ARTEMISA in the Town, To CLOE in the Country. CLOE, by your command in verse I write; Shortly you 'll bid me ride astride and fight : Such talents better with our sex agree, dull shore, more,} Dear Artemisa! poetry 's a snare ; Bedlam has many manfions, have a care ; Your Muse diverts you, makes the reader sad; You think yourself inspir'd, he thinks you mad. Confider too, 'twill be difcreetly done, To make yourself the fiddle of the town. To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need : Curs'd when you fail, and scorn'd when you succeed. Thus, |