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But if it has been taught by thine,

To forfeit both

Its word and oath,
Keep it, for then 'tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
For I'll know all thy falfities;
That I one day may laugh, when thou

Shalt grieve and mourn,

For one will scorn
And prove as false as thou art now.

BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERID AN ESQ. *

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H! cruel maid, how haft thou chang'd

The temper of my mind!
My heart, by thee from mirth estrang'd,

Becomes like thee unkind,

By fortune favour'd, clear in fame,

I once ambitious was;
And friends I had that fann'd the flame,

And gave my youth applause.

1

But now my weakness all abuse,

Yet vain their taunts on me;
Friends, fortune, fame itself, I'd lose,

To gain one smile from thee.

In the comic opera of The Dưenna,

Yet

Yet only thou should'f not despise

My folly or my woe;
If I am mad in others eyes,

'Tis thou hast made me fo!

But days like these, with doubting curs'd,

I will not long endure :
Am I despis'd-I know the worst,

And also know my cure.

If, false, her vows the dare renounce,

She instant ends my pain :
For, oh! that heart must break at once

Which cannot hate again.

THE DESPONDING SHEPHERD.

BY MRS. PILKINGTON *.

O melancholy thoughts a prey,

With love and grief oppress’d;
To peace a stranger all the day,

And all the night to rest :

* The eight first, and four last lines of this song appear in the above ladys memoirs as they are printed at p. 33. and the present copy did not occur time enough to supply the deficiency. The editor had no hesitation in prefixing mrs. Pilkingtons name to this copy; as it is probable, either that her memory deceived her, or that some other mistake happened, at the time of printing her memoirs : the whole being evidently the composition of one and the same person, and possessing too much merit not to have been claimed by a different author,

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For thee, disdainful fair, I pine

And wake the tender figh; By that obdurate heart of thine,

My balmy bleffings fly.

The fabborn rocks, than thee less hard,

Will kind compassion fhow ;
E'en they my loud complaints regard,

And echo back my woe.
While you, averse to all my care,

Unpitying hear me grieve ;
And add new pangs to my despair,

Nor with a smile relieve.

O think how soon that heav'nly bloom,

By which you tyrannize, Shall fade, and thare the common doom,

And death shall veil those eyes! Then look to yon celestial sphere,

Where fouls with raptures glow, And dread to need that pity there,

Which you denied below.

IN CLASS IV.

Y

E virgin pow'rs, defend my heart

From am'rous looks and smiles ;
From faucy love, or nicer art,

Which most our sex beguiles ;
From fighs and vows, from aweful fears,

That do to pity move ;
From speaking filence, and from tears,

Those springs that water love.
But if through passion I grow blind,

Let honour be my guide ;
And where frail nature seems inclin'd,

There fix a guard of pride.
'Tis fit the price of Heav'n be pure,

And worthy of its aid;
For those that think themselves secure

The foonest are betray'd.

0.

Y my fighs you may discover,

What soft wishes touch my heart; Eyes can speak and tell the lover,

What the tongue must not impart.

Blushing shame forbids revealing

Thoughts your breast may disapprove;
But 'tis hard and paft concealing

When we truly fondly love.

BY

BY MR. MENDEZ. *

V

AIN is ev'ry fond endeavour

To resist the tender dart;
For examples move us never,

We must feel, to know the smart.
When the shepherd swears he's dying,

And our beauties sets to view;
Vanity, her aid supplying,

Bids us think it all our due.

Softer than the vernal breezes

Is the mild deceitful strain ;
Frowning truth our fex difpleases,

Flatt'ry never sues in vain.
Soon, too soon the happy lover

Does our tend'rest hopes deceive;
Man was form’d to be a rover,

Foolish woman to believe.

BY SHAKS PEARET.

S Men were deceivers ever;

IGH no more, ladies, figh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;
One foot at sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.

Then figh not so,

But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe

Into, hey nonny, nonny. * In The Chaplet. + Io Much ado about Nothing,

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