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Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day ;While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talk'd of, or feen, Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.
In ditties fo fad and so sweet,
He's wretched, to shew he has wit.
And this is fome pretty new art; .
Seem doleful and alter his face,
Ah! Colin has every pace :
To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie
His head my fond bosom would bear,
And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair,
But Colin is only in jest: No death the deceiver designs,
Let the maid that is ruin’d despair ; For Colin but dies in his lines,
And gives himself that modifh air.
Can shepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame? But Colin makes passion his sport,
Beware of fo fatal a game: My voice of no music can boast,
Nor my person of ought that is fine, But Colin may find, to his cost,
A face that is fairer than mine.
Ah! then I will break
lov'd crook, To thee I 'll bequeath all my sheep, And die in the much-favour'd brook,
Where Colin does now sit and weep : Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,
In sonnets so smooth and divine ; Perhaps, I may
rise from my grave, To hear such soft music as thine.
The hearts-ease, the lily, and pink,
And crown'd by the rivulet's brink; How oft, my dear swain, did I swear,
How much my fond love did admire Thy verses, thy shape, and thy air,
Though deck'd in thy rural attire !
Your sheep-hook you ruld with such art,
That all your small subjects obey'd ; And still you reign’d king of this heart,
Whose passion you falsely upbraid ;
Thy arms are a palace to me,
Though never so fine and so gay?
For thy breast on a bed of new hay :
Again make me happy in love,
E P I GRAM
ON A LADY WHO SHED HER WATER AT SEEING
THE TRAGEDY OF CATO; OCCASIONED BY AN EPIGRAM ON A LADY WHO WEPT AT IT.
HILSTraudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate,
Still with dry eyes the Tory Celia sate : But though her pride forbade her eyes to flow, The guling waters found a vent below, Though secret yet with copious streams she mourns, Like twenty River-Gods with all their urns. Let others screw an hypocritic face, She Mews her grief in a sincerer place! Here Nature reigns, and passion void of art; For this road leads directly to the heart.
JMITATED IN LATIN.
PLORAT fata fui dum cætera turba Catonis,
Eccę! oculis ficcis Cælia fixa sedet;
Invenêre viam quâ per opaca iluant :
Numinis ex urna, ceu fluvialis aqua.
Quæ magè fincera est Cælia parte dolet.
Quâque itur rectâ cordis ad ima viả.
M Æ CE N A S.
VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER
RED ON THE
RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF
HALIFAX, 1714; BEING THAT YEAR INSTALLED KNIGHT OF THE
MOST NOELE ORDER OF THE GARTER.
Cæsar once confpir'd to grace
The God of Wit, who taught him first to fing,
Forbear, he cry'd, to rob me of my fare;