A SONG. In vain you tell your parting lover, That bear me far from what I love? Alas! what dangers on the main Be gentle, and in pity choose TO A LADY: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, an 1 leaving me in the argument. Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave, In the dispute whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; You, far from danger as from fear, For seldom your opinions err; Your eyes are always in the right Why, fair one, would you not rely On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yich So when the Parthian turned his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew. AN ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung and gazed: I played and trembled: Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CUPID MISTAKEN. As after noɔn, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart : I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. I took you for your likeness, Chloe. A BETTER ANSWER1. Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart They were but my visits, but thou art my home. For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with Gods ; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. EPIGRAM. To John I owed great obligation; Sure John and I are more than quit. ANOTHER. Yes, every poet is a fool: By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned's inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet. FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE. To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live alas! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven! |