Believe me, sweet girl, I speak true,
Or else put my love to the test;
Some others have doubted like you,
Like them do you bless and be blest.

[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,
And receives gentle odours from violet beds,
Yet warm in affection as Phoebus at noon,
And as chaste as the silver-white beams of the moon.

Her mind was unsullied as new-fallen snow,
Yet as lively as tints of young Iris's bow,
As firm as the rock, and as calm as the flood,
Where the peace-loving halcyon deposits her brood.

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 :
So, would Daphne but smile, their example I'd

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,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair ;
In gentlest numbers my passion commend;
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend,

For sure, oh ye winds, ye may tell her my pain,
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.

Wherever I go, or whatever I do,

Still something presents the fair nymph to my view:
If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:

But with her neither lily nor rose can compare ;
For sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.

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,
Where beauty and splendour united resort,

Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright

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,
And dwell over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain ;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind :
Like Lydia, or Chloe, would Daphne but prove,
Like Horace or Ovid I'd sing and I'd love.

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,
My kindly pity first did move ;
And in a little moment's space,

This pity did engender love.
And now my death must prove,

The triumph of unthankfulness.

I guess,

For now she rules me with her look,
And round me winds her harlot chain;
Whilst by a strange enchantment struck,
My nobler will recoils in vain.
And soon my death will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,
The weed had trail'd in dust below;
And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

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.