SONG XXXV.

BY DR. AKEN SIDE.

TH

HE fhape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair;

I look for fpirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask 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 fense and sweetness move,

And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the foul of beautys frame,

Without whofe vital aid, Unfinish'd all her features feem,

And all her rofes dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,

How perfect is the view,

With every image of delight,
With graces ever new.

207

Of

Of power to charm the greatest woe,
The wildeft rage controul,
Diffufing mildnefs o'er the brow,
And rapture through the foul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language muft despair,
But go behold Arpafias face,
And read it perfect there.

ON

SONG XXXVI.

YOUNG OLIND A.

WH

HEN Innocence and Beauty meet,
To add to lovely female grace,

Ah, how beyond expreffion sweet
Is every feature of the face.

By virtue, ripened from the bud,

The flower angelic odours breeds,
The fragrant charms of being good,
Makes gawdy vice to smell like weeds.

Oh facred Virtue! tune my voice,
With thy inspiring harmony;
Then I fhall fing of rapting joys,
Will fill my foul with love of thee.

То

To lafting brightness be refin'd,

When this vain fhadow flies away,

'Th' eternal beauties of the mind

Will laft when all things elfe decay.

Killing pleafures, wounding bliffes ;

She can drefs her eyes in love,

And her lips can arm with kiffes.

Angels liften when she speaks,

She's my delight, all mankinds wonder

But my jealous heart would break,

Should we live one day asunder.

O.

VOL. I.

P

SONG

SONG XXXVIII.

THE LASS WITH THE GOLDEN LOCKS.

N

BY MR. CHRISTOPHER SMART.

O more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,

Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before ;

My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've fold,

And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks,
And will fing to my lass with the golden locks.

Though o'er her white forehead the gilt treffes flow,
Like the rays of the fun on a hillock of fnow ;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
"Tis the taste of the antients, 'tis claffical hair :
And though witlings may fcoff, and though raillery mocks,
Yet I'll fing to my lafs with the golden locks.

To live and to love, to converfe and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kiffes and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches, and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.

Than the fwan in the brook fhe's more dear to my fight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white;
Her fweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,

Which are fit for the language or labour of love;

At.

At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lafs bears the bell with her golden locks.

Her beautiful eyes as they roll or they flow,

Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe;
She fhall eafe my fond heart, and fhall footh my foft pain,
While thousands of rivals are fighing in vain;

Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox,
While I have the lass with the golden locks.

SONG XXXIX.

JE NE SCAI QU o 1.

THE JE

BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD ESQ

ES I'm in love, I feel it now,

YES

And Coelia has undone me;
And yet I'll fwear I can't tell how
The pleafing plague ftole on me.

"Tis not her face which love creates,
For there no graces revel;
"Tis not her shape, for there the fates
Have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for fure in that

There's nothing more than common;

And all her fenfe is only chat,

Like any other woman.