But Love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out: For when I think I'm best resolv'd, I then am most in doubt. Then farewell care, and farewell woe, For I'll believe I have her heart, [PARNELL. My days have been so wond'rous free, With careless ease from tree to tree, Ask gliding waters, if a tear Of mine encreas'd their stream? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er I lent a sigh to them. But now my former days retire, The tender chains of sweet desire Are fix'd upon my thought, An eager hope within my breast Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines, With all of nature, all of art, O teach a young unpractis'd heart The very thought of change I hate, 'Tis true, the passion in my mind 1 IF [GARRICK.] F truth can fix thy wav'ring heart, He feels the passion void of art, Though sighing swains their torments tell, Possession cures the wounded heart, By age your beauty will decay, Your mind improves with years; As when the blossoms fade away, The rip'ning fruit appears. May heaven and Sylvia grant my suit, That Damon, who can taste the fruit, ΤΗ [AKENSIDE.] H E shape and face let others prize, I look for spirit in her eyes, A damask cheek, and ivory arm, 1 A soul where awful honour shines; Where sense and sweetness move; Where angel-innocence refines The tenderness of love : These are the soul of beauty's frame, Without whose vital aid, Unfinish'd, all the features seem, And all the roses dead. But ah ! when all these charms unite, How perfect is the view! With ev'ry image of delight, And graces ever new ; Their pow'r but faintly to express, BLUE-EYED MARY. IN a cottage embosom'd within a deep shade, Like a rose in a desert O view the meek maid, Her aspect all sweetness, all plaintive her eye, And a bosom for which e'en a monarch might sigh; Then in neat Sunday gown see her met by the squire, All attraction her countenance, his all desire. He accosts her, she blushes, he flatters, she smiles, And soon blue-eyed Mary's seduced by his wiles. Now with drops of contrition her pillow's wet o'er, But the fleece when once stain'd can know whiteness no more, The aged folks whisper, the maidens look shy, [hate, Learns to squander; they quarrel, his love turns to And soon blue-eyed Mary is left to her fate.. |