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WHEN here Lucinda first we came

Where Arno rolls his silver stream, How blithe the nymphs, the fwains how gay, Content infpir'd each rural lay. The birds in livelier concert sung, The grapes in thicker clusters hung, All look”d as joy could never fail Among the sweets of Arno's vale.

But now since good PALÆmon died,
The chief of thepherds and the pride,
Old Arno's fons must all give place
To northern swains, an iron race.
The tafte of pleasure now is o'er,
Thy notes LUCINDA please no more,
The Muses droop, the Goths prevail,
Adieu the sweets of Arno's vale.

DORSET.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can footh her melancholy?

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is to die.

GOLDSMITH.

TELL

ELL

my

STREPHON that I die ; Let echoes to each other tell, Till the mournful accents ily

TO STREPHON's ear, and all is well.

But

But gently breathe the fatal truth,

And soften every harsher sound,
For StrePhon's such a tender youth,

The softest words too deep will wound.

Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb;

For should I cost my swain a tear, I should repent it in my tomb,

And grieve I bought my reft so dear.

F

ROM place to place, forlorn, I go,

With downcast eyes, a filent shade ; Forbidden to declare my woe ;

To speak, till spoken to, afraid.

My inward pangs, my secret grief,

My soft confenting looks betray; He loves, but gives me no relief;

Why speaks not he who may ?

STEEL.

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THER
HERE is one dark and fullen hour,

Which fate detrees our lives should know, Else we should fight th’ Almighty power,

Wrapt in the joys we find below : 'Tis paft, dear CYNTHIA, now let frowns begone,

A long, long pennance I have done
For crimes, alas ! to me unknown.

In each soft hour of filent night

Your image in my dream appears ; I grasp the foul of my delight,

Slumber in joys, but wake in tears :
Ah ! faithless charming faint, what will you do?

Let me not think I am by you
Lov'd less for being true.

F

AIR, and soft, and gay, and young,
All charm! she play'd, lhe danc'd, she sung,

There

There was no way to 'scape the dart,
No care could guard the lover's heart.
Ah! why, cry'd I, and dropt a tear,
(Adoring, yet despairing e'er
To have her to myself alone)
Was so much sweetness made for one ?

But growing bolder, in her ear
I in soft numbers told my care :
She heard, and rais’d me from her feet,
And seem'd to glow with equal heat.
Like heaven's, too mighty to express,
My joys could but be known by guess !
Ah! fool, said I, what have I done,
To with her made for more than one ?

But long I had not been in view,
Before her eyes their beams withdrew;
Ere I had reckon'd half her charms
She funk into another's arms.
But she that once could faithless be,
Will favour him no more than me:
He too will find himself undone,
And that the was not made for one.

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