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I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,
Then prithee my charmer be kind, For whilft I love thee above measure
To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.
Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flow’rs that enamel its fields, Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying,
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields. Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many sands on the shore, When so many kisses you've given
I still shall be craving for more.
To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
To a heart which, dear Chloe, is thine; With my arms I'll for ever infold thee,
And twist round thy neck like a vine.
My life on thy lips shall be spent ;
With few will be ever content.
7 HEN charming Teraminta fings,
Each new air new passion brings ;
Frolic now, now faint I grow;
Now would listen, now would kiss,
Τ Η E F Ε Μ Α Ι Ε Ρ Η Α Ε Τ Ο Ν.
BY MATHEW PRIOR ESQ. ?
HUS Kitty beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untam'd;
Which wise mamma ordain'd;
Whilft wit and beauty reign'd.
* Lady Catharine Hyde, afterwards duchess of Queensberry.
Shall I thumb holy books, confin'd
With Abigails forsaken?
Or I am much mistaken.
And visit with her cousins?
And bring home hearts by dozens?
I'll soon with Jennys pride quit score,
Make all her lovers fall;
She, I was loos’d at all.
Kitty, at hearts defire,
And set the world on fire!
# Lady Jane Hyde, then countess of Eflex, who died in France 1722,
BY MRS. PILKINGTON.
"TELL A and Flavia, ev'ry hour,
Unnumber'd hearts surprise ; In Stellas foul lies all her pow'r,
And Flavias in her eyes.
More boundless Flavias conquests are,
And Stellas more confin'd;
But few a lovely mind.
Stella, like Britains monarch, reigns
O'er cultivated lands;
To rule o'er barren fands.
Then boait, fair Flavia, boast your face,
Your beautys only store;
Each day gives Stella more.
BY DR. A KENSIDE.
HE shape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair ; I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.
A damak cheek, and ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win, Give me an animated form,
That speaks a mind within.
A face where aweful honour shines,
Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines
The tenderness of love.
These are the foul of beautys frame,
Without whose vital aid, Unfinish'd all her features seem,
And all her roses dead.
But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view, With every image of delight,
With graces ever new.