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CXVIII.

AMBROSE PHILLIPS,

THE STRAY NYMPH.

СЕ

1671-1749.

'EASE your music, gentle swains :
Saw ye Delia cross the plains?

Every thicket, every grove,
Have I ranged, to find my love:
A kid, a lamb, my flock, I give,
Tell me only doth she live.

White her skin as mountain-snow;

In her cheek the roses blow;
And her eye is brighter far
Than the beamy morning star.
When her ruddy lip ye view,
'Tis a berry moist with dew:
And her breath, Oh! 'tis a gale
Passing o'er a fragrant vale,
Passing, when a friendly shower
Freshens every herb and flower.
Wide her bosom opens, gay
As the primrose-dell in May,
Sweet as violet-borders growing

Over fountains ever-flowing.

Like the tendrils of the vine
Do her auburn tresses twine,
Glossy ringlets all behind
Streaming buxom to the wind,
When along the lawn she bounds,
Light, as hind before the hounds:
And the youthful ring she fires,
Hopeless in their fond desires,
As her flitting feet advance,
Wanton in the winding dance.

Tell me, shepherds, have ye seen My delight, my love, my queen?

13

CXIX.

THOMAS PARNELL, 1679-1718.

MY

SONG.

Y days have been so wond'rous free,
The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree,

Were but as blest as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increased their stream?

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fixed upon my thought.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove !
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractised heart,
To make my Nancy mine.

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mixed with soft distress;
Yet while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.

CXX.

POLYPHEME'S SONG.

O

JOHN GAY, 1688-1732.

RUDDIER than the cherry!

O sweeter than the berry!

O nymph more bright

Than moonshine night,

Like kidlings, blithe and merry!

Ripe as the melting cluster,

No lily has such lustre ;

Yet hard to tame

As raging flame,

And fierce as storms that bluster.

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