Gentle murmurs, fweet complaining,
Sighs that blow the fire of love,
Soft repulfes, kind disdaining,
Shall be all the pains you prove;
Every fwain shall pay his duty,
Grateful every nymph shall prove;
And as these excel in beauty,
Those shall be renown'd for love.
TO CUPID ON VALENTINES DAY.
BY MR. PARRAT.
COME thou rofy-dimpled boy,
Source of every heart-felt joy,
Leave the blissful bow'rs awhile,
Paphos and the Cyprian ifle:
Vifit Britains rocky shore,
Britons too thy pow'r adore,
Britons, hardy, bold, and free,
Own thy laws, and yield to thee.
Source of every heart-felt joy,
Come thou rofy-dimpled boy
Hafte to Sylvia, hafte away,
This is thine, and Hymens day;
Bid her thy foft bondage wear,
Bid her for Loves rites prepare.
Let the nymphs with many a flow'r
Deck the facred nuptial bow'r.
Thither lead the lovely fair,
And let Hymen too be there.
This is thine, and Hymens day,
Hafte to Sylvia, haste away.
Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleasure give;
Pomp and pow'r, and tinsel state,
Those falfe pageants of the great,
Crowns and fcepters, envied things,
And the pride of Eaftern Kings,
Are but childish empty toys,
When compar'd to Loves fweet joys.
Love alone can pleasure give,
Only while we love we live.
Rapture more than folly knows,
More than fortune e'er beftows,
Flowing bowls, and conquer'd fields,
Woman, woman, woman yields.
Afk me not of womans arts,
Broken vows, and faithless hearts,
Tell the wretch that pines and grieves,
Woman, woman, woman lives.
All delights the heart can know,
More than folly can bestow,
Wealth of worlds, and crowns of kings,
Woman, woman, woman brings.
H, how fweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young defire!
And what pleafing pains we prove,
When we first approach loves fire;
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs, which are from loyers 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 eafy death.
Love and time with reverence use,
Treat 'em like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse,
Which, in youth, fincere they fend,
For each year their price is more,
And they lefs fimple than before.
Love, like fpring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein :
But each tide does lefs fupply,
Till they quite shrink in again;
If a flow in age appear,
'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
OVE's no irregular defire,
No fudden 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, defpair, and chains, And by whofe difmal verfe, 'tis clear,
He wants not heart alone, but brains.
Nor does it center in the beau,
Who fighs by rule, by order dies, Whofe all confifts in outward show,
And want of wit by drefs fupplies.
No, Love is fomething fo divine,
Description would but make it lefs:
'Tis what I feel, but can't define;
'Tis what I know, but can't express.
OVE's a gentle gen'rous paffion,
Source of all fublime delight,
When with mutual inclination
Two fond hearts in one unite.
What are titles, pomp or riches,
If compar'd with true content?
That falfe joy, which now bewitches,
When obtain'd we may repent.
Lawlefs paffions bring vexation,
But a chafte and conftant love,
Is a glorious emulation
Of the blissful state above.
In The Honest Yorkshireman, a ballad farce.
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