Punish their blindly impious pride
Who dare contemn thy glory;
It was my fall that deify'd
Thy name, and feal'd thy ftory.
Yet no new fuff'rings can prepare
A higher praife to crown thee;
Tho' my first death proclaim thee fair,
My fecond will dethrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canft entice
No other for thy fuel;
And if thou burn one victim twice,
Think thee both poor and cruel.
SONG 1181.
IF the quick fpirit of your eye,
Now languish, and anon muft die;
If every sweet and every grace
Muft fly from that forfaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys,
Ere time fuch goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece muft grow
For ever free from aged fnow;
If thofe bright funs must know no fhade,
Nor your fresh beauty ever fade;
Then, Celia, fear not to beftow
What ftill being gather'd, still muft grow,
Thus either time his fickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
Yet do not my folly reprove;
She was fair and my paffion begun; She fmil'd-and I could not but love; She is faithlefs-and I am undone."
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
That a nymph fo compleat would be fought
By a fwain more engaging than me.
Ah! love ev'ry hope can infpire,
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithlefs, and I am undone;
Ye that witnefs the woes I enduse,
Let reafon instruct you to shun
What it cannot inftruct you to cure.
Beware how ye loiter in vain`
Amid nymphs of an higher degree: It is not for me to explain
How fair and how fickle they be.
O ye woods! fpread your branches apace,
To your deepest receffes I fly;
I would hide with the beafts of the chace;
I would vanish from every eye.
Yet my reed shall refound through the grove,
With the fame fad complaint it begun;
How the fmil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithlefs, and I am undone.
LATE when love I feem'd to flight,
Phillis fmil'd, as well she might;
Now, faid fhe, our throne may tremble,
Men our province now invade,
Men take up our royal trade;
Men, e'en men, do now diffemble,
In the duft our empire's laid.
Tutor'd by the wife and grave,
Lothe I was to be a flave;
Miftrefs founded arbitrary;
So I chose to hide my flame,
Friendship, a difcreeter name;
But the fcorns one jot to vary;
She will love, or nothing, claim.
Be a lover, or pretend,
Rather than the warmest friend;
Friendship of another kind is
Swedish coin of grofs allay,
A cart-load will fearce defray;
Love, one grain is worth the Indies,
Only love is current pay.
The eagle's fate and mine are one,
Which on the shaft that made him die,
Efpy'd a feather of his own,
Wherewith he us'd to foar fo high.
Had Echo, with fo fweet a grace,
Narciffus' loud complaints return'd;
Not for reflection of his face,
But of his voice, the boy had burn'd.
SONG 1186.
WINE, wine in the morning
Makes us frolick and gay,
That, like eagles, we foar
In the pride of the day;
Gouty fots of the night
Only find a decay.
Tis the fun ripes the grape,
And to drinking gives light;
We imitate him
When by noon we're at height; They fteal wine, who take it When he's out of fight. Boy, fill all the glaffes,
Fill them up now he shines;
The higher he rifes,
The more he refines;
For wine and wit fail
As their maker declines.
IN vain, dear Chloe, you fuggeft,
That I, inconftant, have poffeft,
Or lov'd a fairer the;
Would you with eafe at once be cur'd
Of all the ills you've long endur'd,
Confult your glafs and me.
If then you think that I can find
A nymph more fair, or one more kind,
You've reafon for your fears;
But if impartial you will prove
To your own beauty, or my love,
How needlefs are your tears!
If in my way I fhould by chance
Receive or give a wanton glance,
i like but while I view ;
How flight the glance, how faint the kifs, Compar'd to that fubftantial blifs
Which I receive from you!
With wanton flight the curious bee
From flower to flower ftill wanders free,
And where each bloffom blows,
Extracts the juice from all he meets;
But, for his quinteffence of fweets,
He ravishes the rofe.
So, my fond fancy to employ
On each variety of joy,
From nymph to nymph I roam;
Perhaps fee fifty in a day;
Thefe are but vifits that I pay,
For Chloe is my home.
THE ATTIC FIRE.
WHEN all the Attic fire was fled,
And all the Roman virtue dead,
Poor Freedom loft her feat;
The Gothic mantle fpread a night,
That damp'd fair virtue's fading light,
The mufes loft their mate.
Where should they wander, what new shore
Has yet a laurel left in ftore?
To this bleft ifle they steer;
Soon the Parnaffian choir was heard,
Soon virtue's facred form appear'd,
And Freedom foon was here.
The lazy monk has left his cell,
Religion rings her hallow'd bell,
She calls thee now by me:
MY former time, how brifk and gay,
So blithe was I, as blithe could be;
But now I'm fad, ah! well-a-day,
For my true love is gone to fea.
The lads purfue, I ftrive to fhun,
Their wheedling arts are loft on me;
For I to death fhall love but one,
And he, alas! is gone to fea.
As droop the flow'rs till light return,
As mourns the dove it's abfent fhe;
So will I droop, fo will I mourn,
Till my true love returns from fea.
THE new-flown birds the fhepherds fing,
And welcome in the May;
Come, Paftorella, now the fpring
Makes ev'ry landscape gay:
Wide-fpreading trees their leafy fhade
O'er half the plain extend,
Or, in reflecting fountains play'd,
Their quiv'ring branches bend.
Come, tafte the feafon in it's prime,
And blefs the rifing year;
Oh! how my foul grows fick of time,
Till thou, my love, appear! Then fhall I pafs the gladfome day,
Warm in thy beauty's fhine,
When thy dear flock hall feed and play,
And intermix with mine.
For thee of doves a milk-white pair
In filken bands 1 hold;
For thee a firftling lambkin fair
I keep within the fold:
If milk-white doves acceptance meet,
Or tender lambkins pleafe,
My fpotless heart without deceit,
Be offer'd up with eafe.
NATURE gave all creatures arms,
Faithful guards from hoftile harms;
Jaws the lion brood defend,
Horrid jaws that wide diftend;
Horns the bull's refiftlefs force
Solid hoofs the vigorous horse,
Nimble feet the fearful hare,
Wings to fly the birds of air.
To the fox did wiles ordain,
The craftieft of the fylvan train;
Tufks the gave the grunting fwine,
Quills the fretful porcupine;
Fins to fwim the wat'ry kind,
Man the virtues of the mind;
Nature lavishing het store,
What for woman had the morë!
Helplefs woman, to be fair,
Beauty fell to woman's fhare;
Beauty, that nor wants, or fears,
Sword or flames, or fhield or fpears;
Beauty ftronger aid affords,
Stronger far than fhield or (words;
Stronger far than fwords or thields,
Man himself to beauty yields.
At the dreadful word phyfic, the nymph fled
At the fatal word phyfic she doubled her haste.
Thou fond god of wifdom, then alter thy phrafe,
Bid her view thy young bloom, and thy ravishing rays;
Tell her lefs of thy knowledge, and more of thy charms,
And, my life for't, the damfel fhall fly to thy
SONG 1207.
Written by Mr. WALLER. PHILLIS! why should we delay
Pleafures fhorter than the day? Could we (which we never can!) Stretch our lives beyond their span; Beauty like a fhadow flies, And our youth before us dies. Or would youth, and beauty, ftay, Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath fwifter wings than time: Change in love to heaven does climb; Gods, that never change their state, Vary oft their love and hate. Phillis! to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two: Let not you and I enquire, What has been our past defire; On what shepherds you have fmil'd, Or what nymphs I have beguil'd: Leave it to the planets, too, What we shall hereafter do: For the joys we now may prove, Take advice of present love.
THE HAPPY SWAIN.
Written by AMBROSE PHILIPS.
feen the morning sky,
When the dawn prevails on high,
When, anon, fome purple ray,
Gives a fample of the day;
When, anon, the lark on wing,
Strives to foar, and ftrains to fing?
Have ye feen th' ethereal blue,
Gently hedding filver dew,
Spangling o'er the filent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the moon and ftars full bright,
Lonefome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye feen the broider'd May,
All her fcented blooms difplay,
Breezes opening every hour,
This and that expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal fong?
Have ye feen the damask rofe
Her unfully'd blush difclafe;
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