TELL my Stephon that I die ;

Let echoes to each other tell, Till the mournful accents fly

To Strephon's ear, and all is well.

But gently breathe the fatal truth,
And soften every harsher sound,
For Strephon's such a tender youth,

The softest words too deep will wound.

Now fountains, echoes, all be dumb;
For should I cost my swain a tear,

I should repent it in my tomb,

And grieve I bought my rest so dear.

[STEEL.]

FROM place to place, forlorn, I go,
With downcast eyes, a silent shade,
Forbidden to declare my woe;

To speak, till spoken to, afraid.

My inward pangs, my secret grief,
My soft consenting looks betray;
He loves, but gives me no relief;
Why speaks not he who may?

THERE is one dark and sullen hour,
Which fate decrees our lives should know,
Else we should slight th' Almighty power,
Wrapt in the joys we find below:

'Tis past, dear Cynthia, now let frowns begone,
A long, long pennance I have done
For crimes, alas! to me unknown.

In each soft hour of silent night

Your image in my dream appears;

I grasp the soul of my delight,

Slumber in joys, but wake in tears:

Ah! faithless charming saint, what will you do? Let me not think I am by you

Lov'd less for being true.

THE INCONSTANT.

FAIR, and soft, and gay, and young,
All charm! she play'd, she danc'd, she sung,
There was no way to 'scape the dart,
No care could guard the lover's heart.
Ah! why, cried I, and dropt a tear.
(Adoring, yet despairing e'er

To have her to myself alone)

Was so much sweetness made for one?

But growing bolder, in her ear
I in soft numbers told my care:

She heard, and rais'd me from her feet,
And seem'd to glow with equal heat.
Like heaven's, too mighty to express,
My joys could but be known by guess !
Ah! fool, said I, what have I done,
To wish her made for more than one?

But long I had not been in view,
Before her eyes their beams withdrew;

Ere I had reckon'd half her charms

She sunk into another's arms.

Ꮮ

But she that once could faithless be,
Will favour him no more than me:
He too will find himself undone,
And that she was not made for one.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

[HENRY CAREY.]

THO' cruel you seem to my pain,
And hate me because I am true;
Yet, Phyllis, you love a false swain,
Who has other nymphs in his view.

Enjoyment's a trifle to him,

To me what a heaven would it be !
To him but a woman you seem,
But, ah! you're an angel to me.

Those lips which he touches in haste,
To them I for ever could grow;
Still clinging around that dear waist

Which he spans as beside him you go.

That arm, like a lily so white,

Which over his shoulders you lay,
My bosom could warm it all night,
My lips they could press it all day.

Were I like a monarch to reign,

Were graces my subjects to be,
I'd leave them, and fly to the plain,
To dwell in a cottage with thee.

But if I must feel your disdain,
If tears cannot cruelty drown,
Oh! let me not live in this pain,
But give me my death in a frown.

[HAMILTON.]

E shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain, Approach from your sports and attend to my strain; Amongst all your number a lover so true

Was ne'er so undone with such bliss in his view.

Was ever a nymph so hard-hearted as mine?
She knows me sincere, and she sees how I pine;
She does not disdain me, nor frown in her wrath,
But calmly and mildly resigns me to death.