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In Heaven itself thou sure wert dreft

With that angel-like disguise; Thus deluded am I blest,

And see my joy with closed eyes.

But ah! this image is too kind

To be other than a dream : Cruel Sacharissas mind

Never put on that sweet extreme !

Fair dream ! if thou intend'st me grace,

Change that heavenly face of thine ; Paint despis'd love in thy face,

And make it to appear like mine.

Pale, wan, and meagre let it look,

With a pity-moving shape; Such as wander by the brook

Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

Then to that matchless nymph appear,

In whose shape thou shinest fo; Softly in her sleeping ear,

With humble words express my woe.

Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,

Thus surprised the may fall : Sleep does disproportion hide,

And death resembling, equals all.

SONG

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When, in the sultry heat of day,
My thirsty nymph does panting lay,
I'll hasten to the rivers brink,
And drain the floods but she shall drink.

At night, to reft her weary head,
I'll make my love a graffy bed;
And with green boughs I'll form a shade,
That nothing may her rest invade.

And whilft diffolv'd in sleep she lies,
Myself shall never close these eyes ;
But gazing ftill with fond delight,
I'll watch my charmer all the night.

And then, as soon as chearful day
Dispels the darksome shades away,
Forth to the forest I'll repair,
To seek provision for my fair.

Thus

Thus will I spend the day and night,
Still mixing labour with delight;
Regarding nothing I endure,
So I can ease for her procure.

But if the nymph, whom thus 1 love,
To her fond swain should faithless prove,
I'll seek fome dismal distant fhore,
And never think of woman more.

SONG LII.

BY LORD

LANSDOW N.

fo

HY cruel creature, why so bent,

To vex a tender heart? To gold and title you relent;

Love throws in vain his dart.

Let glittering fops in courts be great,
For
pay

let armies move : Beauty should have no other bait,

But gentle vows and love,

If on those endless charms you lay

The value that's their due ;
Kings are themselves too poor to pay;

A thousand worlds too few.

But

But if a passion without vice,

Without disguise or art,
Ah Celia ! if true love's your price,

Behold it in my heart.

SONG LIII.

THE

HE sun was funk beneath the hill,

The western clouds were lin'd with gold, The sky was clear, the winds were still,

The flocks were pent within the fold; When from the silence of the grove, Poor Damon thus despair'd of love :

Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose

From the bare rock or oozy beach ;
Who, from each barren weed that grows,

Expects the grape or blushing peach;
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.

I have no herds, no fleecy care,

No fields that wave with golden grain, No pastures green, or gardens fair,

A damsels venal heart to gain ; Then all in vain my fighs must prove, For I, alas! have nought but love.

How

How wretched is the faithful youth,

Since womens hearts are bought and sold ; They ask not vows of sacred truth,

Whene'er they figh, they figh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove, But I, alas ! have nought but love.

To buy the gems of Indias coast,

What wealth, what treasure can suffice?
Not all their fire can ever boast

The living luftre of her eyes:
For these the world too cheap would prove;

But I, alas! have nought but love.

O Silvia! since nor gems, nor ore,

Can with your brighter charms compare,
Confider what I proffer's more,

More feldom found, a soul fincere':
Let riches meaner beauties move,
Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.

S O N G LIV.

THE COMPLAINT.

TO A SCOTCH TUNE.

BY MR. O T WAY.

I
Love, I doat, I rave with pain,

No quiet's in my mind,
Though ne'er could be a happier swain

Were Sylvia less unkind.

For

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