Such foolish timorous arts as these Resolv'd, I rose, and softly prest The roses of her cheek. Charm'd with this boldness, she relents, To all my wishes she consents, With heat like this Pygmalion mov'd Thus warm'd, the marble virgin lov'd, WINE, wine in the morning That like eagles we soar Gouty sots of the night "Tis the sun ripes the grape, And to drinking gives light;. We imitate him When by noon we're at height; They steal wine who take it When he's out of sight. Boy, fill all the glasses, Fill them up now he shines; The higher he rises The more he refines, For wine and wit fall As their maker declines. [SIR WILLIAM YONGE.] IN N vain, dear Chloe, you suggest Would you with ease at once be cur'd If then think that I can find A nymph more fair, or one more kind, But if impartial you will prove If in my way I should by chance How slight the glance, how faint the kiss, Which I receive from you! R With wanton flight the curious bee From flower to flower still wanders free And where each blossom blows, Extracts the juice from all he meets, But, for his quintessence of sweets, He ravishes the rose. So my fond fancy to employ From nymph to nymph I roam Perhaps see fifty in a day, ; SHOULD some perverse malignant star (As envious stars will sometimes shine) Throw me from my Florella far, Let not my lovely fair repine If in her absence I should gaze With pleasure on another's face. The wearied pilgrim, when the sun With pleasure sees the friendly moon By borrow'd light, supply his place : Not that he slights the God of day, But loves ev'n his reflected ray. WHY will Florella, while I gaze, To shun your scorn, and ease my care, But oh! how faint is every joy So restless exiles doom'd to roam Yet languish for their native home, |