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Thither lead the lovely fair,
And let Hymen too be there.
This is thine, and Hymens day,
Haste to Sylvia, hafte away.

Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleasure give;
Pomp and pow'r, and tinsel state,
Those false pageants of the great,
Crowns and scepters, envied things,
And the pride of Eastern Kings,
Are but childish empty toys,
When compar'd to Loves sweet joys.
Love alone can pleasure give,
Only while we love we live.

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Rapture more than folly knows,
More than fortune e'er bestows,
Flowing bowls, and conquer'd fields,
Woman, woman, woman yields.

Ask me not of womans arts,
Broken vows, and faithless hearts,
Tell the wretch that pines and grieves,
Woman, woman, woman lives.

AH delights the heart can know,
More than folly can bestow,
Wealth of worlds, and crowns of kings,
Woman, woman; woman brings.

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Aw, how

fweet it is to love!


H, how sweet it is to love!



desire! And what pleasing pains we prove,

When we first approach loves fire ;
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs, which are from lovers blown,

Do but gently heave the heart : 'Ev'n the tears they shed alone,

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart;

* In the tragedy of Tyrannick Love,


Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and time with reverence use,

Treat 'em like a parting friend ; Nor the golden gists refuse,

Which, in youth, sincere they send,
For each

their price


more, And they lefs fimple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in every youthful vein: But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite fhrink in again ; If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.




OVE's no irregular desire,

No sudden start of raging pain, Which in a moment grows a fire,

And in a moment cools again.

Not found in the fad fonneteer,

That fings of darts, despair, and chains, And by whose dismal verse, 'tis clear,

He wants not heart alone, but brains.


Nor does it center in the beau,

Who fighs by rule, by order dies, : Whose all consists in outward show,

And want of wit by dress supplies.

No, Love is something so divine,

Description would but make it less: 'Tis what I feel, but can't define;

'Tis what I know, but can't express.

s O N G VI.



OVE's a gentle gen'rous passion,

Source of all sublime delight, When with mutual inclination

Two fond hearts in one unite.


What are titles, pomp or riches,

If compar’d with true content ? That false joy, which now bewitches,

When obtain'd we may repent.

Lawlefs paffions bring vexation,

But a chaste and constant love, Is a glorious emulation

Of the blissful ftate above.

* In The Honest Yorkshireman, a ballad farce.


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H If in all thy love there ever

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ONEST lover whatsoever,

love there ever
Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame,
Were not still even, still the same,

Know this,
Thou lov'ft amiss,

And to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.

If when she appears

i?th? room,
Thou dost not quake, and art ftruck dumb,
And in striving this to cover
Doft not speak thy words twice over,


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