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[SHERIDAN.]

OH, had my love ne'er smil❜d on me,
I ne'er had known such anguish ;
But think how false, how cruel she,
To bid me cease to languish.
To bid me hope her hand to gain,

Breathe on a flame half perish'd;
And then with cold and fix'd disdain
To kill the hope she cherish'd.

Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,
That drove as winds did blow it;
Silent had left the shatter'd deck,
To find a grave below it.

Then land was cried-no more resign'd,
He glow'd with joy to hear it;
Not worse his fate, his woe to find,

The wreck must sink ere near it.

[SHERIDAN.]

I NE'ER

ER could any lustre see

In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again;
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ?
I will do so, when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.

[SIR W. JONES.]

WAKE, ye nightingales, oh, wake!

Can ye, idlers, sleep so long?
Quickly this dull silence break;
Burst enraptur'd into song :
Shake your plumes, your eyes unclose,
No pretext for more repose.

Tell me not, that winter drear
Still delays your promis'd tale,
That no blossoms yet appear,

Save the snow-drop in the dale:
Tell me not the woods are bare ;
Vain excuse! prepare, prepare.

View the hillock, view the meads :
All are verdant, all are gay;
Julia comes, and with her leads

Health, and youth, and blooming May
When she smiles, fresh roses blow;
Where she treads, fresh lilies grow.

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Hail! ye groves of Bagley, hail,
Fear no more the chilling air:
Can your beauties ever fail ?

Julia has pronounc'd you fair.
She could cheer a cavern's gloom,
She could make a desert bloom.

[GILBERT COOPER.]

DEAR Chloe what means this disdain,
Which blasts each endeavour to please?
Tho' forty, I'm free from all pain,
Save love, I am free from disease.

No Graces my mansion have fled,
No Muses have broken my lyre;
The Loves frolic still round my bed,
And Laughter is cheer'd at my fire.

Tɔ none have I ever been cold,
All beauties in vogue I'm among;
I've appetite e'en for the old,

And spirit enough for the young.

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.

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