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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 : 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 uncontrollid my tears, and free: O Damon ! 'tis the only woe
I ever yet conceal'd from thee.
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.
ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.
IN THE SAME STYLE.
THE AUTHOR SICK.
ES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
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: 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.
EAR Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty
face; Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair
all uncurid : 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 lent to 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
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
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.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
PALLAS AND VENUS.
HE Trojan swain had judg'd the great
dispute, And beauty's power obtain’d the golden
When Venus, loose in all her naked charms, Met Jove’s great daughter clad in shining arms. The wanton goddess view'd the warlike maid From head to foot, and tauntingly she said :
Yield, sister; rival, yield: naked, you see, I vanquish : guess how potent I should be, If to the field I came in armour drest; Dreadful, like thine, myshield, and terrible my crest!
• My heart with her but, as guest-wise, sojourn'd;
And now to Helen it is home return'd,
Midsummer Night's Dream, A. iii. S. 2
The warrior goddess with disdain replied:
TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN LOVE.
ROM public noise and factious strife,
From all the busy ills of life,
And lull my wearied soul to rest.
To painted roofs, and shining spires