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FAdmit my humble tale ;
AIREST of thy sex and best,
humble tale ; "Twill ease the torment of my breast,
Though I shall ne'er prevail.
No fond ambition me does move
Your favour to implore, I ask not for return of love,
But freedom to adore.
FROM THE FRENCH.
BY MICHAEL WODHULL ES l.
OULD you guess, for I ill can repeat
The sensation I'm destin’d to prove ; 'Tis something than friendship more sweet,
More passionate even than love.
For ever, when absent from you,
Pale Echo returns my fond sighs ; But when haply your beauties I view,
On my lips the faint utterance dies.
This the secret I had to betray;
And the fate of my passion is such, That in what I was prompted to say,
Methinks I have utter'd too much.
L’AM OUR TIM ID E.
FROM THE FRENCH.
BY SIR JOHN MOOR E.
Compaffion ever lov'd to dwell,
The cause I must not-dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys
That rends my heart—that checks my tongueI fear will last me all my days,
But feel it will not last me long.
HE filver rain, the pearly dew,
The gales that sweep along the mead,
And marbles have found tears to shed :
In mrs, Clives (two act) comedy of the Rehearsal, or Bayes in petticoats,
Shall things inanimate be kind,
And every soft sensation know;
All, all, but thee, some mercy show.
BY MATHEW PRIOR ESQ.
WHILST I am fcorch?d with hot desire,
HILST I am scorch'd with hut desire,
In vain cold friendship you return; Your drops of pity on my fire
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
Ah! would you have the flame fupprest
That kills the heart it heats too fast, Take half my passion to your breast,
The rest in mine shall ever last.
IS not your saying that you love,
Can ease me of my smart :
approve, Or else break
In vain you bid my passions cease,
And ease my troubled breaft,
Restore my wonted rest.
O tell Amynta, gentle swain,
I would not die, nor dare complain :
A figh or tear perhaps she'll give,
BY AARON HILL ESQ.
To my eyes resign thy dart;
To disolve a frozen heart.
Chill, as mountain snow, her bofom;
Though I tender language use, "Tis by cold indifference frozen,
To my arms, and to my muse.
Sce! my dying eyes are pleading,
Where a breaking heart appears : For thy pity interceding,
With the eloquence of tears.
While the lamp of life is fading,
And beneath thy coldness dies, Death my ebbing soul invading,
Take my foul into thy eyes.
CO N S T A N C Y.
BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
Cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn:
For you alone was born.