O strike not dead with an heart-thrilling frown
Your faithful liegeman, while he begs you spare
Th' ambrosial tresses of your flowing hair,
Which Love, our common lord, asserts his own;
In them well pleas'd he lurks, and of them makes
Those subtle nets with which fond hearts he takes.

For Love's dread power, and for the Graces' sakes, Let far away the murd❜rous sheers be thrown; Nor give those locks, the virgin's radiant crown, To torturing fire, which their fine texture breaks, Drinks up their juice, and brings with quick decay December's hoary badge on blooming May.

Let Gallia's dames, in borrow'd beauty gay,

Who o'er their cheeks the plaist'ring ceruse spread, And youth's sweet flush disgrace with tawdry red, In nature's spite make artful ringlets play;

And, when the fire denies its wonted aid,
With purchas'd curls their faded temples shade :

In native charins secure, the British maid

Should trust to Nature; since to her she owes
Th' unsullied lily, and the glowing rose;
Let her point out how best may be display'd
Those beaming glories, which her hand has shed
With various bounty on the beauteous head.

ODE XXXIV.

CHLOE's UNKNOWN LIKENESS.

BY DR. JOHN HOADLEY.

In shape, in air, in face and voice,
The very ape of Chloe!

Since I have fix'd for life my choice,
'Tis well I do not know you.

Yet witness, Love, I own the pow'r
Of this ideal maid :

So much my Chloe I adore,

I bow me to her shade.

If idol-worship be a fault,

Have mercy, Love, on meChloe's the goddess of my thought, Though Celia bows my knee.

Though the mock-sun amuse the sight,
And more demand the view;

We wonder at the mimic light,
But only feel the true.

Consult your mind, consult your glass,
Each charm of sense and youth;
Then own, who changes is an ass,
Nor wonder at my truth.

ODE XXXV.

ON THE FALLING

OF

THE AUTHOR's HAIRS.

FEW and easy in your stay,
Never curl'd, and hardly gray;
Hairs adieu! though falling all,
Blameless, harmless, may you fall.
Light and trifling though you be,
More deserving poetry

Than the dream of guilty pow'r,
Than the miser's gather'd ore,
Than the world's most serious things,
Murd'ring victors, haughty kings,
If your moral fall presage

Death, the certain end of age,

If a single hint you give

Well to die, and soon to live.

ODE XXXVI.

ΤΟ

MISS LAURENCE,

IN THE PUMP-ROOM, BATH. 1753.

NAID of this healthful stream,
Fair LAURENTIA, if I deem

Rightly of thy office here,

If the theme may please thine ear,
Listen gracious to my lays,

While the springs of HEALTH I praise:

Nor will less thy glory shine,

If their praise I blend with thine.

For of their renown of old

Stories many Fame hath told :

Ancient bards their names have sung

Heroes, kings, and gods among,
And with various titles grac'd,
While their fountain-head they trac'd;
Whether Bladud, king of yore,
Skill'd in philosophic lore,

Mingling various kinds of earth,

Metallic, gave the waters birth,
KING'S-BATH nam'd, beneath thy feet
Boiling ay with min'ral heat;
Or, whether from his car on high
Phoebus saw with amorous eye