A SONG. In vain you tell your parting lover, That bear me far from what I love? Be gentle, and in pity choose TO A LADY: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and leaving me in the argument. Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave, That more than triumph he might have, In the dispute whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; You, far from danger as from fear, For seldom your opinions err; Your eyes are always in the right. Why, fair one, would you not rely On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew. AN ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung and gazed: I played and trembled: Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CUPID MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. I took you for your likeness, Chloe. A BETTER ANSWER1. Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart. So when I am wearied with wandering all day; They were but my visits, but thou art my home. For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop A squirrel spend his little rage, Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with Gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. EPIGRAM. To John I owed great obligation; Sure John and I are more than quit. ANOTHER. Yes, every poet is a fool : By demonstration Ned can show it: FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE. To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live alas! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven! |