SONG. PRITHEE, why so angry, sweet? 'Tis in vain To dissemble a disdain : When thy rosy cheek thus checks I could sin with a pretence; Thus your very frowns entrap My desire, And inflame me to admire That eyes dress'd in an angry shape ODE. Laura sleeping. WINDS, whisper gently whilst she sleeps, And fan her with your cooling wings, Whilst she her drops of beauty weeps From pure, and yet-unrivall'd springs! Glide over beauty's field, her face, To kiss her lip and cheek be bold, But with a calm and stealing pace, Neither too rude, nor yet too cold. Play in her beams, and crisp her hair, With such a gale as wings soft love; And with so sweet, so rich an air, As breathes from the Arabian grove. A breath as hush'd as lover's sigh, Or that unfolds the morning's door; Sweet, as the winds that gently fly To sweep the spring's enamell'd floor. How The Joys of Marriage. [An extract.] uneasy is his life Who is troubled with a wife! Be she pious, or ungodly, Be she chaste, or what sounds oddly: Be she saint, or be she devil; Who is married to a wife. ODE. Laura weeping. CHASTE, lovely Laura 'gan disclose, Drooping with sorrow, from her bed; As with ungentle showers the rose, O'ercharg'd with wet, declines her head. With a dejected look and pace When, meeting with her tell-tale glass, Sweet Sorrow dress'd in such a look Character'd with clandestine fire. Then a full shower of pearly dew As in due homage to bestrew Or mourn her beauty's funeral. So have I seen the springing Morn Her glories by that conquer'd shade. Spare, Laura, spare those beauty's twins, Then let them shine forth, to declare |