Thefe eyes with Strephon's paffion play,
First make me love, and then betray.
Yes, charming victor, I am thine,
Poor as it is, this heart of mine
Was never in another's pow'r,
Was never pierc'd by love before.
In thee I've treafur'd up my joy,
Thou can'ft give blifs, or blifs deftroy:
And thus I've bound myself to love,
While blifs or misery can move.
O fhould I ne'er poffefs thy charms,
Ne'er meet my comfort in thy arms;
Were hopes of dear enjoyment gone,
Still would I love, love thee alone.
But, like fome discontented fhade.
That wanders where its body's laid,
Mournful I'd roam with hollow glare,
For ever exil'd from my fair.
Upon hearing his Picture was in CHLOE'S Breaft.
To the Tune of, The fourteen of October.
E gods! was Strephon's picture bleft
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breaft?
Move fofter, thou fond flutt'ring heart,
Oh gently throb,--too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the blifs defign'd?
For Strephon's fake, dear charming maid,
Didft thou prefer his wand'ring fhade?
And thou, bleft fhade, that fweetly art
Lodged fo near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And foftly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it fcorns to hear
Its wretched mafter's ardent pray'r,
Ingroffing all that beauteous heaven,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.
I cannot blame thee: Were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a mifer too, nor give
An alms to keep a God alive.
Oh fmile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks, that lifeless are,
Prize him whofe bofom glows with fire,
With eager love and foft defire.
'Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid,
To life can bring the filent fhade:
Thou can't furpafs the painter's art,
And real warmth and flames impart.
But oh! it ne'er can love like me,
I've ever lov'd, and lov'd but thee:
Then, charmer, grant my fond request,
Say thou canst love, and make me bleft.
Song for a Serenade.
To the Tune of, The broom of Cowdenknows.
EACH me, Chloe, how to
My boafted flame fincere :
'Tis hard to tell how dear I love,
And hard to hide my care.
Sleep in vain difplays her charms,
To bribe my foul to rest,
Vainly spreads her filken arms.
And courts me to her breaft.
Where can Strephon find repofe,
If Chloe is not there?
For ah! no peace his bofom knows,
When abfent from the fair.
What tho' Phœbus from on high
Withholds his chearful ray,
Thine eyes can well his light fupply,
And give me more than day.
Love is the Caufe of my Mourning.
Y a murmuring ftream a fair fhepherdess lay, Be fo kind, O ye nymphs, I oftimes heard her fay, Tell Strephon I die, if he paffes this way,
And that love is the cause of my mourning.
Falfe fhepherds that tell me of beauty and charms,
You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms;
Yet bring me this Strephon, let me die in his arms,
Ob Strephon! the cause of my mourning.
But firft, faid fhe, let me go
Down to the fhades below,
E'er ye let Strephon know
That I have lov'd him fo:
Then on my pale cheek no blushes will show
That love was the cause of my mourning.
Her eyes were scarce closed when Strephon came by, He thought fhe'd been fleeping, and foftly drew nigh; But finding her breathlefs, oh heavens! did he cry, Ab Chloris! the caufe of my mourning.
Rettore me my Chloris, ye nymphs, ufe your art,
They fighing, reply'd, 'twas yourself shot the dart
That wounded the tender young fhepherdess' heart,
And kill'd the poor Chloris with mourning.
Ah then is Chloris dead,
Wounded by me! he faid;
I'll follow thee, chafte maid,
Down to the filent fhade.
Then on her cold fnowy breaft leaning his head,
Expir'd the poor Strephon with mourning.
To Mrs. A. H. on feeing her at
Confort.
To the Tune of, The bonniest Lafs in a' the Warld.
OOK where my dear Hamilla fmiles,
Hamilla! heavenly charmer;
See how with all their arts and wiles
The Loves and Graces arm her.
A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks,
Fair feats of youthful pleasures,
There love in smiling language fpeaks,
There spreads his rofy treafures.
O faireft maid, I own thy pow'r,
I gaze, I figh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,
And triumph in my anguish.
But eafe, O charmer, eafe my care,
And let my torments move thee;
As thou art faireft of the fair,
So I the deareft love thee.
The Bonny SCOT.
To the Tune of, The Boat-man.
gales that gently wave the fea,
And please the canny boat-man,
Bear me frae hence, or bring to me
My brave, my bonny Scot-man :
In baly bands
We join'd our hands,
Yet may not this discover,
While parents rate
A large eftate,
Before a faithfu' lover.
But I loor chufe in Highland glens
To herd the kid and goat---man,
E'er I cou'd for fic little ends
Refuse my bonny Scot---man.
Wae worth, the man
Wha first began
The base ungenerous fashion,
Frae greedy views
Love's art to use,
While ftrangers to its paffion.
Frae foreign fields, my lovely youth,
Hafte to thy longing laffie,
Who pants to prefs thy bawmy mouth,
And in her bofom hawfe thee.
Love gi'es the word,
Then hafte on board,
Fair winds and tenty boat-man,
Waft o'er, waft o'er
Frae yonder fhore,
My blyth, my bonny Scot---man.
Scornfu' Nanfy.
To its own Tune.
'ANS Y's to the Green Wood
To hear the Gowdspink chatt'ring,
And Willie he has followed her,
To gain her love by flatt'ring:
But a' that he cou'd fay or do,
She geck'd and fcorned at him;
And ay when he began to woo,
She bid him mind wha gat him.
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