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Thine affections, in an instant,
Struggle which shall first be now:

This and that, and here and there,
Only in thy thoughts appear.

Thou art weary, thou art wavering,

Coy, and in a while as kind;
All thy passions, in a turning,
Shift as often as the wind.

To and fro, and up and down;
Change doth all thy actions crown.

But to me thon ne'er art chang’d

In thy wonted cruelty !
Still from me thou keeps estrang’d;
There's thy, only constancy.

Oh then, let thy next change be
From neglect to love of me!

If in that mind I could find ye,

I would hold thec fast enow.
This should be my trick to bind ye :
Change I would as oft as you.

Then, by my example taught,
Thou shouldst see that change is naught.

Cupid and the Clown.

[From the same MS.]

As Cupid took his bow and bolt,

Some birding sport to find,
He chanced on a country swain

Which was some yeoman's hind.

Clown. “ Well met, fair boy! what sport abroad?

“ It is a goodly day;
“ The birds will sit this frosty morn,

“ You cannot choose but slay.

“ Gadzooks ! your eyes are both put out!

“ You will not bird, I trow? “ Alas, go home, or else I think

“ The birds will laugh at you.”

Cupid. “ Why man, thou dost deceive thyself,

“ Or else my mother lies,
“ Who said, altho' that I were blind,

“ My arrows should have eyes.”

* A copy of this, with some variations, is printed in “ Wit « restored.”

Clown.“ Why then thy mother is a fool,

And thou art but an elf,
" To let thy arrows to have eyes

“ And go without, thyself.”

Cupid. “ Not so, sir swain, but hold your prate;

" If I do take a shaft
“ I'll make thee ken what I can do!”

With that the ploughman laugh’d.

Then angry Cupid drew his bow. Clown. “For God's sake slay ine not!" Cupid, “ I'll make thy lither liver ache.” Clown. “ Nay! I'll be loth of that !"

The stinging arrow hit the mark,

And pierc'd his silly soul :
You might know by his hollow eyes

Where Love had made a hole.

And so the clown went bleeding home;

(To stay it was no boot)
And found, that he could see to hit,

That could not see to shoot.

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[Vide“ A choice Collection of comic and serious Scots

“ Poems, both ancient and modern,” in three parts, Edinburgh, Watson, 1709-1711, 8vo. and “The Hive,”(4 small volumes of songs) frequently printed before the middle of the last century. I can at present produce no earlier authorities, though the copy given in the first edition of this work was taken, I believe, from some more ancient miscellany. However, from the internal evidence of style and sentiment, I have no difficulty in referring this poem to the reign of Charles I.]

I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have gone near to love thee; Had I not found the slightest prayer

That lips could speak, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be lov'd by none.

I do confess thou’rt sweet, yet find

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind

That kisseth every thing it meets.
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kiss'd 2 by none.

* This is the title given in Watson's collection. In the Hive it is " To his cheap mistress.”

* So the Hive. “ love," Watson's Coll. * So the Hive. " lov’d,” Watson.

The morning rose, that untouch'd stands,

Arm’d with her briars, how ' sweetly smells ! But pluck'd and strain'd through ruder hands,

Her sweets no longer with her dwells; But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,

When thou hast handled been a while !
Like sere-flowers 2 to be thrown aside,

And I shall sigh, while some will smile, 3
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none!

To the Moon.

(From a MS.) Thou silent Moon, that look'st so pale,

So much exhausted, and so faint,

So Watson. “most," the Hive. • To the best of my recollection, this is the reading of my original copy. Watson gives " fair flowers," and the Hive " those flowers,” both much inferior.

3 So the Hive. “you shall sigh when I shall smile," Watson.

* The editor has to apologize to the authoress of the two following beautiful little poems, Miss Scott, of Ancram, for

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