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Tho' battle calls me from thy arms,
WILLIAM fhall to his dear return :
The boatswain gives the dreadful word,
They kiss’d; she figh’d; he hung his head : Her less’ning boat unwilling rows to land; Adieu she cries, and waved her lily hand.
APHNIS stood pensive in the shade,
With arms across, and head reclin'd;
And fighs reliev'd his love-fick mind :
Why ring the woods with warbling throats ?
Ye larks, ye linnets, cease your strains ; I faintly hear in your sweet notes,
My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains : Yet why should you your song forbear? Your mates delight your song to hear,
But Chloe mine disdains.
As thus he melancholy itood,
Dejected as the lonely dove, Sweet founds broke gently through the wood.
I feel the found; my heart-strings move : 'Twas not the nightingale that sung ; No, 'tis my Chloe's sweeter tongue,
Hark, hark, what says my love !
How foolish is the nymph, she cries,
Who triles with her lover's pain ! Nature ftill speaks in woman's eyes,
Our artful lips were made to feign. ODAPHNIS, DAPHNIS, 'twas my pride, 'Twas not my heart thy love deny'd,
Come back, dear youth, again,
As t'other day my hand he seiz'd,
My blood with thrilling motion flew Sudden I put on looks displeas'd,
And hafty from his hold withdrew. 'Twas fear alone, thou fimple fwain, Then hadît thou preft my hand again,
My heart had yielded too !
'Tis true, 'thy tuneful reed I blam’d,
That swell'd thy lip and rosy cheek ;
That lip Mould other pleasures seek :
Much more to hear thee speak.
My heart forebodes that I'm betray'd,
DAPHNIS I fear is ever gone ;
Love by such trifles first comes on.
Ah CHLOE, thou art won!
The youth stepp'd forth with hasty pace,
And found where wishing Chloe lay;
Confus'd, she knew not what to say,
But I am loft. to-day!
DESPAIRING beide a clear iream,
ESPAIRING beside a clear stream,
laid, And whilít a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head ; The wind that blew over the plain
To his fighs with a figh did reply, And the brook in return to his pain
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! filly swain that I was !
Thus fadly complaining he cried ; When first I beheld that fair face,
'Twere better by far I had died. She talk’d, and I blest the dear tongue,
When she smil'd 'twas a pleasure too great; I liften'd, and cry'd, wlten fhe fung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?
How foolish was I to believe
She would doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine folks of the town; To think that a beauty fo gay,
So kind and so constant would prove, To go
clad like our maidens in gray, And live in a cottage on love.
What tho' I have skill to complain,
Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd? What tho’ when they hear my soft ftrain,
The virgins fit weeping around? Ah Colin thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel refign, Thy fair one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine.