T SONG XXV. BY DR. HENRY KING, Те BISHOP OF CHICHESTER. ELL me no more how fair fhe is, The story of that distant bliss I never fhall come near: And tell me not how fond I am From whence no triumph ever came, But to repent too late : There is fome hope ere long I may I ask no pity, Love, from thee, The glory of my flame: Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, SONG XXVI. HE nymph that undoes me is fair and unkind; She's the grief of my heart, and the joy of my eye, Her Her mouth, from whence wit ftill obligingly flows, She wounds with a look, with a frown she can kill. The desperate lover can hope no redress, 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, Seals of love, but feal'd in vain. Hide, oh hide thofe hills of snow, 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. SONG XXVIII. BY EDMUND WALLER ESQ Go lovely rofe! Tell her that wastes her time, and me, 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 How small a part of time they share, SONG Know hapless flower, that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there; I fee thy withering head reclin'd One common fate we both must prove, SONG XXX. TO A LADY READING SHERLOCK UPON DEATH. BY THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. M ISTAKEN fair, lay Sherlock by, 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 To live's to love, to blefs be bleft, Share then my ardour in your breast, But if thus bleft, I may not live, To me at least your Sherlock give, W SONG XXXI. HEN firft I fair Celinda knew, Her eyes I could with pleafure view, In all delights we pafs'd the time, She oft would kindly hear me rhime But, ah! at last I grew too bold, She hated ev'n my name: Thus |