Now deep in afhes finks the myrtle bow'r,
O'er beds of flow'rs fulphureous torrents roar;
And exil'd demi-gods their ruin'd feats deplore.
E ladies that live in the city or town,
Fair Winton or Alresford fo fine and so gay; And ye neat country laffes' in clean linen gown, As neat and as blithe and as pretty as they : Come away itrait to Ovington, for you can't think What a charming new walk there is made on the Link.
Look how lovely the profpect, the meadows how green,
The fields and the woods, in the vale or the hill:
The trees, and the cottage that peeps out between,
The clear ftream that runs bubbling in many a rill,
That will show your fair face as you stand on the brink,
And murmurs moft fweetly all under the Link.
How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky,
How pure the fresh air, and how healthy the place!
Your heart goes a pit-a-pit light as a fly,
And the blood circles briskly, and glows in your face:
Wou'd you paint your fair cheeks with therofe and the pink!
Throw
your washes away, take a walk on the Link.
After dinner the 'squire ere the ladies retreat,
Marches off with some friends that will ply the brisk glass;
Gives us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat,
And damn your fine taste, and your finical lass:
Al fresco, my lads, we'll carouse and we'll drink,
Take
your bottle each man, and away to the Link.
Not fo gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall,
To Molly he steals all in filence away;
And when nought can be heard but the rude water-fall,
And the woodbine breathes sweetest at close of the day,
He takes her foft hand, and he tips her the wink,
Come, my dear, let us take a cool walk on the Link.
But, O ye fair maidens, be sure have a care,
Nor lay yourselves open to love's cruel dart;
Of the hour and the place and the season beware,
And guard well each paffage that leads to your heart;
Sly Cupid will steal in at fome little chink,
If you walk in the evening too late on the Link.
Ye poets fo lofty, who love to retire
From the noise of the town to the stream and the wood;
Who in epics or tragics, with marvellous fire,
Utter founds by mere mortals not well understood:
Here mouthe your loud ftrain, and here ply pen and ink,
Quit Parnaffus and Pindus, and come to the Link.
And come you, who for thought are at little expence, Who indite gentle pastoral, ballad, or song;
You fee with smooth numbers, and not too much sense,
How the verses run eafy and glibly along;
And the rhime at the close how it falls with a clink,
So kind are the Muses that sport on the Link.
In the feventh Canto of the Legend of Chastity, in Spenfer's Fairy Queen, the Squire of Dames tells Satyrane, that by order of his mistress Columbel (after having ferved the ladies for a year) he was fent out a fecond time, not to return till he could find three hundred women incapable of yielding to any temptation. The bad fuccefs he met with in the course of three years, which is flightly touch'd upon by Spenfer, is the foundation of the following poem.
ARD is the heart that never knew to love,
Ne felt the pleafing anguifh of defire.
Ye British maids, more fair than Venus' dove,
For you alone I tune my humble lyre;
Adopt me, nymphs, receive me in your quire,
Make me your bard; for that is all my care:
Then shall I envy not that aged fire,
Who doth for court his annual fong prepare:
I lever myrtle wreath than Kefar's laurel wear.
II.
Think not because I write of Columbel
I thence would blait the fex with impious tale;
Tranfactions vile of foreign fronds I tell,
Ne 'gainst a British female would I rail
For all the wealth that rolls on Indian grail.
Here, beauty, truth, and chastity are found:
Eleonora here, with vifage pale,
Did fuck the poison from her Edward's wound,
And Anna's nuptial faith shall ftond for aye renown'd.
See the fair fwans on Thamis' lovely tide,
The which do trim their pennons filver bright,
In fhining ranks they down the waters ride;
Oft have mine eyes devour'd the gallant fight.
Then caft thy looks, with wonder and delight, Where yon fweet nympho enjoy the ev'ning air, Some daunce along the green, like fairies light, Some flow'rets cull to deck their flowing hair; Then tell me, foothly, swain, which fight thou deem'ft moft
To you, bright stars, that sparkle on our isle,
I give my life, my fortune, and my fame;
For my whole guerdon grant me but a fmile,
A smile from you is all I hope or claim;
Nor age's ice my ardent zeal shall tame,
Το my life's end I fhall your names adore,
Not hermits' bofoms feel fo pure a flame,
Warm'd by approval I more high fhall foar:
Receive my humble lays, my heart was yours before.
... Y.
Should you confent, I'll quit my fhepherd's grey,
And don more graceful and more coftly gear,
My crook and fcrip I'll throw with fcorn away,
And in a famite garment ftreit appear.
Farewell, ye groves, which once I held fo dear;
Farewell, ye glens, I other joys purfue;
Then shall the world your matchless pow'r revere,
And own what wonders your sweet smiles can do,
That could a fimple clown into a bard tranfmew.
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