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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
ENUS, take my votive glass;
* Taken from an epigram of Plato. See Rambler, Number 143.
ORBEAR to ask me, why I weep;
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,
The garland (and you call it mine)
Which show'd how youth and beauty fade.
Ten thousand trifles light as these
She should be humble, who would please;
When in my glass I chanc'd to look;
Of Venus what did I implore?
Should know to charm my Damon more.
Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I,
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,
Love I esteem'd more strong than age,
Why then I weep, forbear to know:
(> Damon! 'tis the only woe
I ever yet conceal'd from thee. Jo
The secret wound with which I bleed
But on my tombstone thou shalt read
ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.
IN THE SAME STYLE. THE A PTHOH SICK.
ES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
While now I take my last adieu,
Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;
Lest yet my half-clos'd eye may view
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.
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:
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,
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,
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;