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WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS. AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.
WHOE'ER she be, CHLOE, we must not always be in heaven,
That not impossible she, Forever toying, ogling, kissing, billing ;
That shall command my heart and me; The joys for which I thousands would have given, ! Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling. Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye, Thy.neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
In shady leaves of destiny, And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves;
Till that ripe birth Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;
Of studied fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth;
Till that divine
Idea take a shrine Economy in love is peace to nature,
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : Much like economy in worldly matter; We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Meet you her, my Wishes, Profusion will not, cannot always last.
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called my absent kisses.
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie,
Think what with them they would do
FROM “QUENTIN DURWARD.”
Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea, Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, I will ne'er the more despair :
The breeze is on the sea. If she love me, this believe,
The lark, his lay who trilled all day, I will die ere she shall grieve.
Sits hushed his partner nigh; If she slight me when I woo,
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, I can scorn and let her go ;
But where is County Guy ? For if she be not for me,
The village maid steals through the shade, What care I for whom she be ?
Her shepherd's suit to hear ;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above, ROSALIND'S COMPLAINT.
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know, Love in my bosom, like a bee,
But where is County Guy ? Doth suck his sweet ;
SIR WALTER SCOTT. Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. His bed amidst my tender breast,
LET not woman e'er complain My kisses are his daily feast,
Of inconstancy in love ; And yet he robs me of my rest :
Let not woman e'er complain Ah ! wanton, will ye?
Fickle man is apt to rove;
Look abroad through Nature's range, And if I sleep, then percheth he
Nature's mighty law is change; With pretty flight,
Ladies, would it not be strange And makes his pillow of my knee,
Man should then a monster prove ? The livelong night. Strike I the lute, he tunes the string; Mark the winds, and mark the skies; He music plays, if so I sing ;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow; He lends me every lovely thing,
Sun and moon but set to rise, Yet, cruel, he my heart doth sting :
Round and round the seasons go. Whist! wanton, still ye !
Why then ask of silly man,
To oppose great Nature's plan? Else I with roses every day
We'll be constant while we can, Will whip you hence,
You can be no more, you know. And bind you when you long to play,
Loved thus before to-day ?”.
“They may have, yes, they may, my love ;
Not long ago they may."
“But, though they worshipped thee, my love, He will repay me with annoy,
Thy maiden heart was free?" Because a god;
“Don't ask too much of me, my love; Then sit thou safely on my knee,
Don't ask too much of me."
“ Yet, now 't is you and I, my love, O Cupid ! so thou pity me;
Love's wings no more will fly ?” Spare not, but play thee !
“If love could never die, my love, THOMAS LODGE. 1 Our love should never die.”