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The annual wound allur'd
The Syrien damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day ;
While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
Ran purple to the sea fuppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.


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To view Sabrina's filver waves below,
Liv'd LINDAMIRA; fair as Beauty's Queen,
The fame fweet form, the fame enchanting mein,
With all that fofter elegance of mind
By genius heighten'd, and by tafte refin'd.
Yet early was the doom'd the child of care,
For love, ill-fated love subdu'd the fair.
Ab! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the finith'd face ;
Or what cach beauty on the heaven-born mind,
The soul superior or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but serves destruction to insure,
And sense, to feel the pang it cannot cure,

Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her hand,
And many a fuitor came from many a land,
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspird,
And distant fuitors all in rain admir'd.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover the refus'd she made a friend :
Her meek reje&tion wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance seem'd it than disgrace.

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Young POLYDORE, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains.
Who has not heard how Polydore cou'd throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the Aying doe?
How leave the swiftest at the race behind,
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind ?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the loft flute, or ftrike the louder lyre?
From thar fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung,
The Gracce tun'a it and Apollo ftrung,

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Apollo too was once a fhepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain,
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The focial sweetness, and the fylvan fong:
He taught fair Wisdom in her


to wobe,
Her joys how precious and her wants how few!
The favage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravith'd Eche fill'd the vocal wood
The facred Sisters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear.

Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous eyes,
And Jove in envy, call'd him to the skies.

Young Polydore was rich in large domains, In smiling pastures, and in flowery plains : With these he boafted each exterior charm, To win the prudeat, and the cold to warm ;

To act the tenderness he never felt,
In forrow foften, and in anguilh melt.
The figh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well-feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his the treacherous art
That Ateals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.

Too soon he heard of Lindamira's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd Shepherd's fav’rite theme: Return'd the rising, and the setting fun, The Shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done. They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air! And even inferior beauties thought her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder mov'd;
He faw, admir'd, nay fancied that he lov d:
But Polydore no real paffion knew,
Loft to all truth in feigning to be true.
No sense of tenderness could warm a heart,
Too proud to feel, too felfish to impart.

Cold as the snows of Rhodope defcend,
And with the chilling waves of Hebrus blend;
So cold the breaft where Vanity prefides,
And mean felf-love the bosom-feelings guides,

Too well he knew to make his conqueit surę,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale.

So oft he sworem-how should he not prevail ?
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd,
The well-imagined tale the nymph believ'd;
She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd.


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