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[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,

eye;

Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy, In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright [appear? But, alas! what would Brudenel or Richmond Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but there.

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 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.
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, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

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 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.

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain,

To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure timely pain.

But heaven will take the mourner's part

In pity to despair;

And the last sigh that rends the heart
Shall waft the spirit there.

FROM anxious zeal and factious strife,
From all the uneasy cares of life,
From beauty still to merit blind,
And still to fools and coxcombs kind;
To where the woods in brightest green,
Like rising theatres are seen,
Where gently murm'ring runs the rill,
And draws fresh streams from ev'ry hill;

Where Philomel in mournful strains
Like me of hopeless love complains,

Retir'd I pass the livelong day,
And idly trifle life away:

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