Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true, [GILBERT COOPER.] THE nymph that I lov'd was as cheerful as day, And as sweet as the blossoming hawthorn in May; Her temper was smooth as the down on the dove, And her face was as fair as the mother's of Love. Tho' mild as the pleasantest zephyr that sheds, Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow, The sweets that each virtue or grace had in store, She cull'd as the bee would the bloom of each flow'r. Which treasur'd for me, O, how happy was I, For tho' her's to collect, it was mine to enjoy. [P. WHITEHEAD.] As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just praise, And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays : follow, 'And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo: But alas! while no smiles from the fair one in spire, [lyre! How languid my strains, and how tuneless my Go, zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear, For sure, oh ye winds, ye may tell her my pain, Wherever I go, or whatever I do, Still something presents the fair nymph to my view: But with her neither lily nor rose can compare ; If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove, The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my The nightingale too with impertinent noise, [love; Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice : [brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings. If forsaking the groves, I fly to the court, Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy, eye; [appear? But, alas! what would Brudenel or Richmond Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain, THE IVY. [WAY, translator of the Fabliaux.} How ow yonder ivy courts the oak, And clips it with a false embrace! So I abide a wanton's yoke, And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. How fain the tree would swell its rind! But, vainly trying, it decays, So fares it with my shackled mind, So wastes the vigour of my days. Ig And soon our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. A lass, forlorn for lack of grace, This pity did engender love. The triumph of unthankfulness. I guess, For now she rules me with her look, But, had the oak denied its shade, Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. [MOORE.] WHEN HEN Damon languish'd at my feet, And I beheld him true, The moments of delight how sweet! But ah! how swift they flew ! The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale, The garden and the grove Have echoed to his ardent tale, And vows of endless love. |