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SONG XXV.

BY DR. HENRY KING,

Те

BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.

ELL me no more how fair fhe is,
I have no mind to hear

The story of that distant bliss

I never fhall 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 fome 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 facrifice.

SONG XXVI.

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 caufe of a flame that never can die,

Her

Her mouth, from whence wit ftill obligingly flows,
Has the beautiful blush, and the smell of the rofe;
Love and Destiny both attend on her will,

She wounds with a look, with a frown she can kill.

The desperate lover can hope no redress,
Where beauty and rigour are both in excess;

In Sylvia they meet, fo unhappy am I,

Who fees her, must love her, who loves her, must die. O.

TA

SONG XXVII.

AKE, oh take those lips away,
That fo fweetly were forfworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn :
But my kiffes bring again,

Seals of love, but feal'd in vain.

Hide, oh hide thofe hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bofom bears,
On whofe tops the pinks that grow,
Are of those that April wears:
But first fet my poor heart free,

Bound in those icy chains by thee*.

O.

* This delicious little fonnet has been generally afcribed to Shakfpeare, but it is far from certain that he was the author of it. The first ftanza is fung in Measure for Measure, and both verfes are to be found in one of Beaumont and Fletchers plays.

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SONG XXVIII.

BY EDMUND WALLER ESQ

Go lovely rofe!

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How fweet and fair fhe feems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And fhuns to have her

graces spied,

That hadft thou sprung

In deferts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retir'd;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer her felf to be defir'd,

And not blufh fo to be admir'd.

Then die! that the

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share,
That are fo wondrous fweet, and fair.

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Know hapless flower, that thou shalt find

More fragrant roses there;

I fee thy withering head reclin'd
With envy and despair.

One common fate we both must prove,
You die with envy, I with love.

SONG XXX.

TO A LADY READING SHERLOCK UPON DEATH.

BY THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

M

ISTAKEN fair, lay Sherlock by,
His doctrine is deceiving,

For whilft he teaches us to die,

He cheats us of our living.

In the Fable of The Poet and the Rofe.

Το

To die's a leffon we shall know
Too foon, without a master;
Then let us only study now
How we may live the fafter.

To live's to love, to blefs be bleft,
With mutual inclination;

Share then my ardour in your breast,
And kindly meet my paffion.

But if thus bleft, I may not live,
And pity you deny,

To me at least your Sherlock give,
"Tis I must learn to die.

W

SONG XXXI.

HEN firft I fair Celinda knew,
Her kindness then was great:

Her eyes I could with pleafure view,
And friendly rays did meet :

In all delights we pafs'd the time,
That could diverfion move;

She oft would kindly hear me rhime
Upon fome others love.

But, ah! at last I grew too bold,
Prefs'd by my growing flame;
For when my paffion I had told,

She hated ev'n my name:

Thus

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