Her

eyes with tears no more will flow; With jealous rage her breaft will glow: And on her tabby rival's face

She deep will mark her new difgrace.

A N

D

I.

E.

WHILE from our looks, fair nymph, you guess

The fecret paffions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you fay, confefs
A heart to love and grief inclin'd.

II.

There needs, alas! but little art,
To have this fatal fecret found:
With the fame ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you may fhow the wound.

III.

How can I fee you, and not love;

While

you as op'ning east are fair?

While cold

as northern blasts you prove; How can I love, and not despair?

IV.

The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release:

Soon, if

my

love but once were crown'd,

Fair prophetefs, my grief would cease.

D 2

IN vain you tell your parting lover,

You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,

That bear me far from what I love
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal thofe that I sustain,
From flighted vows, and cold difdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To with the wildest tempefts loose:
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwrackt heart was loft,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of flighted vows, and cold difdain,

TH E

DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

ALEXIS fhun'd his fellow swains,

Their rural sports, and jocund strains,
(Heav'n guard us all from Cupid's bow!).

He loft his crook, he left his flocks;
And wand'ring through the lonely rocks,

He nourish'd endless woe.

The

The nymphs and shepherds round him came :
His grief fome pity, others blame ;
The fatal cause all kindly feek:
He mingled his concern with theirs ;
He gave 'em back their friendly tears;
He figh'd, but would not speak.

Clorinda came among the reft;
And she too kind concern expreft,

And afk'd the reafon of his woe:
She ask'd, but with an air and mien,
That made it easily foreseen,

She fear'd too much to know.

The fhepherd rais'd his mournful head;
And will you pardon me, he said,

While I the cruel truth reveal ;

Which nothing from my breast should tear ;
Which never should offend your ear,
But that you bid me tell?

'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain,
Since you appear'd upon the plain;
You are the caufe of all my care:
Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart :
Ten thousand torments vex my heart:
I love, and I despair.

Too much, Alexis, I have heard,:

"Tis what I thought; 'tis what I fear'd:
And yet I pardon you, fhe cry'd:
But you fhall promife ne'er again

To breathe your vows, or speak your pain:
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.

TO THE HONOURABLE

CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ

I.

HOWE'ER, 'tis well, that while mankind

Through Fate's perverfe meander errs, He can imagin'd pleasures find,

To combat against real cares.

"He raised himself,"

* Afterwards Earl of Halifax. fays Mr. Walpole, " by his abilities and eloquence in the House of Commons, where he had the honour of being attacked, in conjunction with Lord Somers, and the fatif. faction of establishing his innocence as clearly. Addison has celebrated this lord in his account of the greatest English poets: Steele has drawn his character in the dedication of the second volume of the Spectator, and the fourth of the Tatler; but Pope in the portrait of Bufo in the Epif tle to Arbuthnot has returned the ridicule, which his lordfhip, in conjunction with Prior, had heaped on Dryden's Hind and Panther." He dyed 19 May, 1715.

II. Fancies

II.

Fancies and notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in thought:
Each, like the Grecian artist †, woo's
The image he himself has wrought.
III.

Against experience he believes ;

He argues against demonstration; Pleas'd, when his reason he deceives; And fets his judgment by his paffion. IV.

The hoary fool, who many days

Has ftruggled with continued forrow,
Renews his hope, and blindly lays
The defp'rate bett upon to-morrow.
V.

To-morrow comes: 'tis noon, 'tis night;
This day like all the former flies:
Yet on he runs, to feek delight
To-morrow, 'till to-night he dies.
VI.

Our hopes, like tow'ring falcons, aim.
At objects in an airy height:
The little pleasure of the game
Is from afar to view the flight.
VII.

Our, anxious pains we, all the day,
In fearch of what we like, employ:
Scorning at night the worthless prey,
We find the labour gave the joy.

† Apelles.

D 4

VIII. At