VILLIERS,
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
BRIMFUL of anger, not of love,
The champion sends his foe one glove;
But I, who have a double share
Of softer passion, send a pair.
Nor think it, dearest Celia, cruel,
That I invite you to a duel :
Ready to meet you face to face,
At any time, in any place:
Nor will I leave you in the lurch,
Tho' You should dare to name the church;
There come equipp'd with all your charms,
The ring and licence are my arms;
With these I mean your power to try,
And meet my charmer, though I die.
FROM a warm clime and generous soil
This plant remov'd deludes our toil,
Disdains what baffled art has done,
And drooping mourns the distant sun.
Yet, Mira, near thy bosom plac❜d,
It shall new life, new pleasure taste;
Sweets, more than nature gave, dispense,
Nor lend thee charms, but borrow thence,
See the young fruit thy power confess, And love their own Bermudas less; Though all that we think bright and fair, Though Paradise itself be there.
Ripen'd by thy auspicious eyes,
And eager to bestow the prize,
For which thy matchless beauties call,
Each kindles to a golden ball;
Love's smiling Queen, whose tender aid
Protects the Myrtle's fragrant shade,
Fore-knowing what thy charms would be,
Left to thy choice this fairer tree.
WRITTEN AT THE
REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN
A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE.
BY SAMUEL JOHNSON, L. L. D.
WHAT hopes, what terrors does thy gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand)
Not less capricious than a reigning Fair,
Oft favors, oft rejects a lover's pray'r :
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain;
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers heads,
Th' unhappy lovers graves the myrtle spreads;
Oh! then the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart;
Soon must this bough, as you shall fix his doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.
WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.
A KNIFE, dear Girl, cuts love they say—
Mere modish love, perhaps it may;
For any tool of any kind,
Can sep❜rate what was never join'd.
The Knife that cuts our love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth and spirit
Down to the vulgar size of merit;
To level your's with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever;
All mem❜ry of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you,
A Summer;-and a short one too:
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