When thy rosy cheek thus checks

My offence,

I could sin with a pretence;

Through that sweet chiding blush there breaks So fair, so bright an innocence.

Thus your very frowns entrap

My desire,

And inflame me to admire

That dress'd in an angry shape

eyes

Should kindle as with amorous fire.

SONG.

BY APHRA BEHN.

Love in fantastic triumph sat,

While bleeding hearts around him flow'd,

For whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he show'd:

From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;

But 'twas from mine he took desire,

Enough t' inflame the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty,'
From me his languishment and fears,
And ev'ry killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the god have arm'd,
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.

CUPID AND THE CLOWN.

As Cupid took his bow and bolt,
Some birding sport to find,

He chanced on a country swain
Which was some yeoman's hind.

"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

Why man, thou dost deceive thyself,

'Or else my mother lies,

Who said, altho' that I were blind,

My arrows should have eyes.'

Why then thy mother is a fool, "And thou art but an elf,

"To let thy arrows to have eyes "And go without, thyself."

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. "For God's sake slay me not!" I'll make thy lither liver ache.' "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.

INCONSTANCY

REPROVED.

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 loved 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 love more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be loved by none.

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 scent 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 awhile!
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside,

And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love to every one

Hath brought thee to be loved by none !

TO THE MOON.

BY MISS SCOTT.

THOU silent Moon, that look'st so pale,

So much exhausted, and so faint, Wandering over hill and dale,

Watching oft the kneeling saintHearing his groans float on the galeNo wonder thou art tired and pale.