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SONG VII.

By

F Cupid once the mind poffefs,

All low affections cease;
No troubles then can give distress,

No tumult break the peace.
Oh! had I thousand gifts in store,
Were I of worlds the

queen,
For him I'd covet thousands more,

And call profusion mean.

Then let my swain my love return,

And equal raptures feel;
Nor let his paflions cool, or burn,

As Fortune winds her wheel.
If his fond heart I may believe

Immutably secure,
No forrow then can make me grieve,

No loss can make me poor.

• In the entertainment of The Rehearsal, or Bayes in petticoats. See p. 29.

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SONG VIII.

BY MRS. WH AR TO N*.

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OW hardly I conceal’d my tears,

How oft did I complain,
When many tedious days my fears

Told me I lov'd in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,

And hard to be conceal'd ;
Sorrow may make a filent moan,

But joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,

To every stream and tree,
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks

For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy

We want, we wish, believe ;
'Tis hard such passion to destroy,

But easy to deceive.

* First wife of that notorious Machiavelian, Thomas (afterwards) mare quis of Wharton,

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B

OAST not, mistaken swain, thy art

To please my partial eyes;
The charms that have subdued my heart

Another may despise.

Thy face is to my humour made,

Another it may fright;
Perhaps by some fond whim betray'd

In oddness I delight.

Vain youth, to your confufion know,

'Tis to my loves excess You all

your

fancied beauties owe, Which fade as that

grows

less.

For your own sake, if not for mine,

You should preserve my fire,
Since you, my swain, no more will shine,

When I no more admire.

By me indeed you are allow'd
The wonder of your

kind;
But be not of my judgement proud

Whom love has render'd blind.

M 3

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SONG X.

CHLOE TO STRE PHO N.

BY SOAME JEN YNS ESQ.

TOM

100 plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes

My heart your own declare ; But for heav'ns fake, let it suffice,

You reign triumphant there.

Forbear

your
utmost

power to try, Nor farther urge your sway ; Press not for what I must deny,

For fear I should obey.

Could all
your arts successful

prove,
Would you

a maid undo? Whose greatest failing is her love,

And that her love for you.

Say would you use that very pow'r

You from her fondness claim, To ruin, in one fatal hour,

A life of spotless fame?

Ah! cease, my dear, to do an ill,

Because perhaps you may ; But rather try your utmoft skill,

To save me, than betray.

Be

Be you yourself my virtues guard,

Defend, and not pursue,
Since 'tis a task for me too hard,

To strive with love and you.

SONG XI.

BY MRS. BE H N*,

A

H false Amyntas ! can that hour

So foon forgotten be, When first I yielded up my power,

To be betray'd by thee?

God knows with how much innocence

I did my heart refign,
Unto thy faithless eloquence,
And
gave

thee what was mine.

I had not one reserve in store,

But at thy feet I laid
Those arms which conquer'd heretofore,

Though now thy trophies made.

Thy eyes in silence told their tale

Of love in such a way, That 'twas as easy to prevail,

As after to betray.

* In the comedy of The Dutch Lover,

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