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She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers

Pointing, the lovely moralist said • See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me I the blooming pride of May,

And that of beauty are but one: 30 At morn both flourish bright and gay,

Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung;

The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,

Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow. 40

THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKING
GLASS TO VENUS.*

ENUS, take my votive glass;
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.

* Taken from an epigram of Plato. See Rambler, Number 143.

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CLOE JEALOUS.

ORBEAR to ask me, why I weep;
Vex'd Cloe to her shepherd said;
'Tis for my two poor straggling sheep
Perhaps, or for my squirrel dead.

For mind I what you late have writ?

Your subtle questions, and replies; Emblems, to teach a female wit

The ways, where changing Cupid flies.

Your riddle purpos'd to rehearse

The general power that beauty has; 10 But why did no peculiar verse

Describe one charm of Cloe's face?

The glass, which was at Venus' shrine,
With such mysterious sorrow laid:

The garland (and you call it mine)

Which show'd how youth and beauty fade.

Ten thousand trifles light as these
Nor can my rage, nor anger move:

She should be humble, who would please;
And she must suffer, who can love. 20

When in my glass I chanc'd to look;

Of Venus what did I implore?
That every grace which thence I took,

Should know to charm my Damon more.

Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I,
If here or there his glances flew?

O free for ever be his eye,

Whose heart to me is always true.

My bloom indeed, my little flower

Of beauty quickly lost its pride; 30 For, sever'd from its native bower.

It on thy glowing bosom died.

Yet car'd I not what might presage,
Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth;

Love I esteem'd more strong than age,
And time less permanent than truth.

Why then I weep, forbear to know:
Fall uncontroll'd my tears, and free:

(> Damon! 'tis the only woe

I ever yet conceal'd from thee. Jo

The secret wound with which I bleed
Shall lie wrapt up, e'en in my hearse;

But on my tombstone thou shalt read
My answer to thy dubious verse.

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ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.

IN THE SAME STYLE. THE A PTHOH SICK.

ES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have liv'd; and we must part.

While now I take my last adieu,

Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;

Lest yet my half-clos'd eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.

From Jealousy's tormenting strife

For ever be thy bosom freed: 10 That nothing may disturb thy life,

Content I hasten to the dead.

Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his amorous parley move thee;

Reflect one moment on his truth,

Who, dying thus, persists to love thee.

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A BETTER ANSWER.

i EAR Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face; Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd:Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lentto thy keeping?

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment atonce, and my passion you wrong:

You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: n Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows 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.

The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:

If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he deolires on his Thetis's breast. n

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