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And beneath the vernal skies
Yet a verdure more shall rise,
Ere thy beauties, kindling slow,
In each finished feature glow,
Ere in smiles and in disdain
Thou exert thy maiden reign,
Absolute to save or kill
Fond beholders at thy will.

Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, in courtship greatly sped,
Wins the damsel to his bed,
Bears the virgin prize away,
Counting life one nuptial day:
For the dark-brown dusk of hair,
Shadowing thick thy forehead fair,
Down the veiny temples growing,
O'er the sloping shoulders flowing,
And the smoothly penciled brow,
Mild to him in every vow,
And the fringèd lid below,
Thin as thinnest blossoms blow,
And the hazely-lucid eye,

Whence heart-winning glances fly,






And that cheek of health, o'erspread

With soft-blended white and red,

And the witching smiles which break
Round those lips, which sweetly speak,
And thy gentleness of mind,


Gentle from a gentle kind,

These endowments, heavenly dower!
Brought him in the promised hour,
Shall for ever bind him to thee,
Shall renew him still to woo thee.

Ambrose Philips.




Little charm of placid mien,
Miniature of Beauty's Queen,
Numbering years, a scanty nine,
Stealing hearts without design,
Young inveigler, fond in wiles,
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles,
Yet a novice in disdain,
Pleasure giving without pain,
Still caressing, still caressed,
Thou and all thy lovers blessed,
Never teased, and never teasing,
Oh for ever pleased and pleasing!
Hither, British Muse of mine,
Hither, all the Grecian Nine,
With the lovely Graces Three,
And your promised nursling see:
Figure on her waxen mind
Images of life refined;
Make it as a garden gay,




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Voice, and speech, and action, rising,
All to human sense surprising.

Is the silken web so thin

As the texture of her skin?
Can the lily and the rose
Such unsullied hue disclose?
Are the violets so blue



As her veins exposed to view?
Do the stars in wintry sky


Twinkle brighter than her eye?

Has the morning lark a throat

Sounding sweeter than her note?

Who e'er knew the like before thee?


They who knew the nymph that bore thee.
From thy pastime and thy toys,

From thy harmless cares and joys,
Give me now a moment's time:
When thou shalt attain thy prime,


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Has thy sister heard my strain :
From the Liffy to the Thames,
Minstrel echoes, sing their names,
Wafting to the willing ear
Many a cadence sweet to hear,


Smooth as gently breathing gales


O'er the ocean and the vales,

While the vessel calmly glides

O'er the level glassy tides,

While the summer flowers are springing,
And the new-fledged birds are singing.


Ambrose Philips.



Dear Love, let me this evening die,

Oh smile not to prevent it;

Dead with my rivals let me lie,

Or we shall both repent it.

Frown quickly then, and break my heart,
That so my way of dying

May, though my life was full of smart,
Be worth the world's envying.

Some, striving knowledge to refine,
Consume themselves with thinking;



And some, who friendship seal in wine,
Are kindly killed with drinking.

And some are wrecked on the Indian coast,
Thither by gain invited;

Some are in smoke of battle lost,

Whom drums, not lutes, delighted.

Alas! how poorly these depart,

Their graves still unattended! Who dies not of a broken heart Is not of Death commended. His memory is only sweet,

All praise and pity moving, Who kindly at his mistress' feet Does die with over-loving.

And now thou frown'st, and now I die,
My corpse by lovers followed ;
Which straight shall by dead lovers lie;
That ground is only hallowed.

If priests are grieved I have a grave,
My death not well approving,

The poets my estate shall have,

To teach them the Art of Loving.

And now let lovers ring their bells
For me, poor youth departed,
Who kindly in his love excels,
By dying broken-hearted.

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My grave with flowers let lovers strow,
Which, if thy tears fall near them,
May so transcend in scent and show,
As thou wilt shortly wear them.


Such flowers how much will florists prize,
On lover's grave that growing,

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All light to darkness turning; While every quire shall sadly sing, And nature's self wear mourning, Yet we hereafter may be found,

By destiny's right placing,

Making, like flowers, love underground,
Whose roots are still embracing.



Sir William Davenant.


And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel;

Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.

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