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For the Youth, in whom truth and fondness reside, From the breast of a dove my dart is supply'd : This I value the most :-and this 'twas I found From You, O my Delia, that gave me the und.





Hervey, would you know the passion

You have kindled in my breast ? Trilling is the inclination,

That by words can be express’d.

In my silence see the lover,

True love is by silence known; In my eyes you'll best discover

All the power of your own.







Ere this short winter's day be gone,
My MARY-Anne is twenty-one.
Of days still shorter just a Lent,


from different years is spent, Since her Devoted fairly reckon'd The close of year the thirty-second. Bending beneath the weight of years, Full as infirm as he appears, What can a worn-out lover do, With twenty-one at thirty-two? For such a phrenzy no defence is The girl has clearly lost her senses.

Perhaps deceiv’d by some fond notion, Embrac'd in rapture of devotion,

(1 quote such fancies to expose 'em)
She dreams of bliss in Abraham's bosom ;
And chuses an Antique the rather,
With better grace to call him father.

Perhaps-but fiction be suppress'd, While real joy expands my breastMy faithful flame her heart approves, And Ol transporting thought! she loves.

When Souls, by impulse sympathetic, By intuition most prophetic, By feelings, which they cannot smother, Leap at first glance to meet each other, When each itself in t' other traces, What matter for their different cases ? Of kin, perhaps, in pre-existence, Without dull Reason's slow assistance, They recollect the happy union, And long to recommence communion. I must confess that such attraction, For ease, convenience, satisfaction, Were best if, on deliberation, It met with Reason's approbation : Not as of absolute dominion, To rule by dint of dark opinion; Not as a Lord of sovereign sway, Whom love must worship and obey; But merely as the herd inferior May judge the acts of Powers superior;

As my poor intellect, or thine,
May scan authority divine-
In short, I'd have our simple love,
Not against reason, but above.

Two birds, suppose, of various feather,
Hung in one room by chance together.
To airs melodious tune their voices,
While each the other's ear rejoices:
If, without half a note erroneous,
The song be perfectly harmonious,
What matter for the forms or ages,
Of bills, of feathers, and of cages?

DEAN Swift, whose talent lives no more, His Stella sung at forty-four; And breath'd an idle wish to split In twain her beauty, years, and witOf half her charms he made a proffer For youth; but Time disdain'd his offer. Far happier I, who well could spare, Of each accomplishment a share, Yet leave an ample store of charms, To bring Elysium to my arms, Am not reduc'd those charms to barter, And cry to heedless Time for quarterFly, Sluggard, on thy swiftest wing, My charmer yields not All till Spring!

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