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If to approach a saint with prayer

Unworthy votaries pretend, Above all merit Heaven and you To the fincere are only due.

Long did respect awe my proud aim,

And fear offend my madness cover, Like you it still reprov'd my flame,

And in the friend would hide the lover,
But by things that want a name

I the too bold truth discover.
My words in vain are in my power,
My looks betray me every hour.

SON G XXII.

Τ Η Ε SIL Ε Ν Τ

L O V E R.

BY SIR WALTER RALEIG H.

WRON

RONG not, sweet mistress of my heart!

The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,

Who sues for no compassion.

Since, if my plaints were not t approve

The conquest of thy beauty,
It comes not from defect of love,

But fear t exceed my duty.

For, knowing that I fue to serve

A faint of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve,

A place in her affection,

I rather

I rather chuse to want relief,

Than venture the revealing: Where glory recommends the grief,

Despair disdains the healing.

Thus those desires that boil so high

In any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die,

Discretion them must cover,

Yet when discretion doth bereave

The plaints that I should utter, Then your discretion

may perceive That filence is a suitor.

Silence in love bewrays more woe

Than words, though ne'er fo witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pity.

Then

wrong not, dearest to my heart ! My love for secret paffion : He smarteth most that hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion.

SONG XXIII.

For your

OU may cease to complain,

fuit is in vain, All attempts you can make

But augment her disdain ?

C 2

She

She bids you give o'er

While 'tis in your power, For, except her esteem,

She can grant you no more : Her heart has been long since

Assaulted and won, Her truth is as lafting

And firm as the sun; You'll find it more easy

Your passion to cure, Than for ever those fruitless

Endeavours endure.

You may give this advice

To the wretched and wife, But a lover like me

Will those precepts despise ; I scorn to give o'er,

Were it still in my power ;
Though esteem were denied me,

Yet her I'll adore,
A heart that's been touch'd

Will fome fympathy bear, "Twill lessen my forrows,

If she takes a share. I'll count it more honour

In dying her slave, Than did her affections

My feadiness crave.

You

You may

tell her I'll be
Her true lover, though the
Should mankind despise

Out of hatred to me;
'Tis mean to give o'er

'Cause we get no reward,
She loft not her worth

When I lost her regard:
My love on an altar

More noble shall burn,
I still will love on,

Without hopes of return;
I'll tell her some other

Has kindled the flame,
And I'll figh for her felf

In a counterfeit name.

SONG XXIV.

GOOD REASON FOR LOVING.

BY MR. HENRY CAREY..

SAW

AW you the nymph whom I adore,
Saw

you the goddess of my heart?
And can you bid me love no more,

Or can you think I feel no smart?

So many charms around her shine,

Who can the sweet temptation fly!
Spite of her scorn, she's so divine,

That I must love her, though I die.

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SON G XXV.

BY DR. HENRY KING,

BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.

TELL me no more how fair he is,

ELL me no more how fair she is,

I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near:
By fad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate,
From whence no triumph ever came,

But to repent too late :
There is some hope ere long I may
In filence doat myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame,
So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame:
Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
In that it falls her sacrifice.

SON Ġ XXVI.

ΤΗ

HE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind;

No less than a wonder by nature defign'd; She's the grief of my heart, and the joy of my eye, And the cause of a flame that never can die,

Her

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