How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since womens hearts are bought and fold; They ask not vows of facred truth,
Whene'er they figh, they figh for gold. Gold can the frowns of fcorn remove, But I, alas! have nought but love.
To buy the gems of Indias coaft,
What wealth, what treasure can fuffice?
Not all their fire can ever boast
The living luftre of her eyes:
For these the world too cheap would
But I, alas! have nought but love.
O Silvia! fince nor gems, nor ore,
Can with your brighter charms compare,
Confider what I proffer's more,
More feldom found, a foul fincere':
Let riches meaner beauties move,
Who pays thy worth, muft pay in love.
BY MR. OT 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 lefs unkind.
For when, as long her chains I've worn,
I afk relief from fmart,
She only gives me looks of scorn;
Alas, 'twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly flore,
May offer heaps of gold,
But furely I a heaven adore,
Too precious to be fold;
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize
For wealth and not defert,
And my poor fighs and tears defpife?
Alas, 'twill break my heart!
When like fome panting, hovering dove,
I for my blifs contend,
And plead the caufe of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend.
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you ftrive
To act a healers part,
"Twill keep my lingering pain alive, Alas! and break my heart.
When on my lonely penfive bed
I lay me down to reft,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all eafe denies;
With fome fad dream I start,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rifing, through the path I rove
That leads me where fhe dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful ftory tells;
With fighs I dew and kifs the door,
'Till morning bids depart!
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas, 'twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told :
For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
BY DR. BY ROM.
Y time, o ye Mufes! was happily spent,
When Phebe went with me where ever I went :
Ten thousand foft pleasures I felt in my breast;
Sure never fond fhepherd like Colin was blest!
But now fhe is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvelous change on a fudden I find!
When things were as fine as could poffibly be,
I thought 'twas the fpring, but, alas! it was fhe.
With fuch a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rife
up and play, or to lie down and fleep;
I was fo good-humour'd, fo chearful, and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day.
But now I fo cross, and fo peevish am grown,
So ftrangely uneafy as never was known;
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
And my heart-I am fure it weighs more than a pound.
The fountain that wont to run fweetly along,
And dance to foft murmurs the pebbles among,
Thou know'ft little Cupid, if Phebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas mufic to hear:
But now she is abfent, I walk by its fide,
And ftill, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Muft you be fo chearful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.
When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And when Phebe and I were as joyful as they,
How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time,
When fpring, love, and beauty were all in their prime!
But now in their frolics, when by me they pafs,
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass;
Be ftill then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To fee
you fo merry, while I am fo fad.
My dog I was ever well pleased to fee
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head:
But now, when he's fawning, I, with a four look,
Cry, firrah; and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another, for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phebe's away.
When walking with Phebe, what fights have I feen!
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the fhade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made!
But fince she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now fo delightful appear:
"Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.
Sweet mufic went with us both, all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throftle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet:
But now she is abfent, though ftill they fing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave every thing elfe its agreeable found.
Rofe, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violets beautiful blue?
Does ought of its fweetnefs the blossom beguile ?
That meadow, thofe daifies, why do they not fmile?
Ah, rivals! I fee what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for; a place in her breast:
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