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My breast the forge of happier love,

Where my Lucinda lives ;
And the rich stock does so improve,

As she her art employs,
That every smile and touch she gives

Turns all to golden joys.

Since thence we can such treasures raise,

Let's no expense refuse ;
In love let's lay out all our days ;

How can we e'er be poor,
When every blessing that we use

Begets a thousand more?


SIR CHARLES Sedley, born 1639, died 1701.

Phillis is my only joy,

Faithless as the wind or seas ;
Sometimes coming, sometimes coy,
Yet she never fails to please.

If with a frown
I am cast down,
Phillis smiling

And beguiling,
Makes me happier than before.

Though, alas! too late I find

Nothing can her fancy fix;
Yet the moment she is kind,
I forgive her all her tricks ;

Which though I see,
I can't get free ;
She deceiving,

I believing,
What need lovers wish for more ?



Not, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest ;-
For I would change each hour, like them,

Were not my heart at rest.

For I am tied to very thee

By every thought I have:
Thy face I only came to see,

Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is ador'd,

In thy dear self I find ;
For the whole sex can but afford

The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store,

And still make love anew ?
When change itself can give no more,

'Tis easy to be true.


Thomas STANLEY, born 1664, died 1678.

Though when I lov'd thee, thou wert fair,

Thou art no longer so:
Those glories, all the pride they wear

Unto opinion owe:
Beauties, like stars, in borrowed lustre shine,
And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye

Do now with mine expire ;
Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once with my desire.
Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

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Then, proud Celinda, hope no more,

To be implor'd or woo'd ;
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore

The wealth my love bestow'd :
And thy despis'd disdain too late shall fina
That none are fair but who are kind.

BISHOP ATTERBURY, born 1662, died 1732.
FAIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth

For having lov'd before ;
For men, till they have learn’d the truth,

Strange deities adore.

My heart, 'tis true, hath often rang'd

Like bees on gaudy flowers ;
And many a thousand loves hath chang’d,

Till it was fix'd on yours.
But Sylvia, when I saw those eyes,

'Twas soon determin’d there,
Stars might as well forsake the skies,

And vanish into air.
When I from this great rule do err,

New beauties to adore ;
May I again turn wanderer,

And never settle more.


WILLIAM WALSH, born 1663, died 1709.

Of all the torments, all the cares,

With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners of each other kind,

Afflictions easier grow ;
In love alone we hate to find,

Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see

Are labouring in my breast ;
I beg not you would favour me,

Would you but slight the rest !
How great soe'er your rigours are,

With them alone I'll cope ;
I can endure my own despair,

But not another's hope.

The author of this song is mentioned in the correspondence and poems of Alexander Pope. “In 1705," says Dr. Johnson in his “Lives of the Poets,” “Walsh began to correspond with Mr. Pope, in whom he discovered very early the power


poetry Pope always retained a grateful sense of Walsh's notice, and mentioned him in one of his latest pieces among those that had encouraged his juvenile studies,—

Glanville the polite
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write.'"


From the “ Examen Miscellaneum,” 1702, where it is said to be by Earl D. (Dorset).

The fire of love in youthful blood
Like what is kindled in brushwood,

But for a moment burns;
Yet in that moment, makes a mighty noise;
It crackles, and to vapour turns,

And soon itself destroys.
But, when crept into aged veins,
It slowly burns, and long remains,

And with a silent heat,
Like fire in logs, it glows and warms 'em long;
And though the flame be not so great,

Yet is the heat as strong.


By LORD CANTALUPE. From a half-sheet, with the music, printed about 1720,

and not included in any collection.

Fair Hebe I left with a cautious design,
To escape from her charms, and to drown love in wine;
I tried it, but found, when I came to depart,
The wine in my head, but still love in my heart.
I repair’d to my Reason, entreating her aid,
Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weighd;
Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer,
That Hebe was fairest of all that were fair!

“That's a truth,” replied I, “ I've no need to be taught.
I came for your counsel to find out a fault;"
“If that's all,” says Reason, “return as you came,
For to find fault with Hebe would forfeit my name.”
What hopes, then, alas! of relief from my pain,
When, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vei
My senses surprised, in her favour took arms,
And Reason confines me, a slave to her charms !

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