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All I of Venus ask is this,

No more to let us join;
But grant me here the flatt'ring bliss,

To die and think you mine.

(Prior.]

If wine and music have the power

To ease the sickness of the soul, Let Phoebus every string explore,

And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl. Let them their friendly aid employ

To make my Chloe's absence light, And seek for pleasure to destroy

The sorrows of this live-long night.

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But she to-morrow will return;

Venus be thou to-morrow great, Thy myrtles strew, thy odours burn,

And meet thy fav’rite nymph in state. Kind Goddess, to no other pow'rs , Doo **

Let us to-morrow's blessings own';
The darling Loves shall guide the hours,

And all the day be thiñe alone.

(LYTTELTON.)

W HEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;
Tell me my heart if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's, can hear;
No other wit but her's approve;
Tell me my heart if this be love?

If she some other swain commend,
Tho' I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy. I prove,
Tell me, my heart, if this he love?

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleasd before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;
Tell me, my heart, if this be loved

When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Ah! why must words my flame reveal?
Why needs my Damon bid me tell,

What all my actions prove?
A blush whene'er I meet his eye,
Whene'er I hear his name, a sigh

Betrays my secret love.

In all their sports upon the plain
Mine eyes still fix'd on him remain,

And him alone approve ;
The rest unheeded dance or play,
From all he steals my praise away,

And can he doubt my love?

Whene'er we meet, my looks confess
The joys that all my soul possess,

And every care remove;
Still, still too short appears his stay,
The moments fly too fast away,

Too fast for my fond love.

Does any speak in Damon's praise,
So pleas’d am I with all he says,

I every word approve;
But is hė blam'd, although in jest,
I feel resentmenr fire my breast,

Alas! because I love.

But ah! what tortures tear my heart,
When I suspect his looks impart

The least desire to rove!
I hate the maid that gives me pain,
Yet him to hate I strive in vain,

For ah! that hate is love.

Then ask not words, but read mine eyes, Believe my blushes, trust my sighs,

My passion these will prove; Words oft deceive and spring from art, The true expressions of my heart

To Damon, must be love.

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Come here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be,

That boasts to love as well as me,
And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,

Come hither and thy flame approve;

I'll teach thee what it is to love, And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bath'd in tears,

To live upon a smile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;

To kneel, to languish and implore,
And still, tho’ she disdain, adore;
It is to do all this and think thy sufferings sweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond surprize,
Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear

As wretches feel who wait their doom ;

Nor must one ruder thought presume Tho' but in whispers breath’d, to meet her ear.

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