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Two table-books in shagreen covers,
Filld with good verse from real lovers ;
Merchandise rare! a billet-doux,
Its matter passionate, yet true ;
Heaps of hair rings, and cipher'd seals ;
Rich trifles; serious bagatelles.

What sad disorders play begets !
Desperate and mad, at length he sets
Those darts, whose points make gods adore
His might, and deprecate his power :
Those darts, whence all our joy and pain
Arise : those darts—Come, seven's the main,
Cries Ganymede: the usual trick:
Seven, slur a six; eleven, a nick.

Ill news goes fast: 'twas quickly known, That simple Cupid was undone. Swifter than lightning Venus flew : Too late she found the thing too true. Guess how the goddess greets her son : Come hither, sirrah : no, begone ; And, hark ye, is it so indeed ? A comrade you for Ganymede ? An imp as wicked, for his age, As any earthly lady's page; A scandal and a scourge to Troy ; A prince's son! a blackguard boy ; A sharper, that with box and dice Draws in young deities to vice. All Heaven is by the ears together, Since first that little rogue came hither :

Juno herself has hall no peace :
And truly I've been favour’d less :
For Jove, as Fame reports (but Fame
Says things not fit for me to name),
Has acted ill for such a god,
And taken ways extremely odd.

And thou, unhappy child, she said,
(Her anger by her grief allay'd,)
Unhappy child, who thus hast lost
All the estate we e'er could boast;
Whither, O whither wilt thou run,
Thy name despis’d, thy weakness known ?
Nor shall thy shrine on earth be crown'd;
Nor shall thy power in Heaven be own’d;
When thou, nor man, nor god canst wound.

Obedient Cupid kneeling cried,
Cease, dearest mother, cease to chide :
Gany's a cheat, and I'm a bubble :
Yet why this great excess of trouble ?
The dice were false : the darts are gone:
Yet how are you or I undone ?

The loss of these I can supply
With keener shafts from Cloe's eye:
Fear not, we e'er can be disgrac'd,
While that bright magazine shall last:
Your crowded altars still shall smoke;
And man your friendly aid invoke:
Jove shall again revere your power,
And rise a swan, or fall a shower.

UTPID MISTAKEN.

As after noon, one rummer's day,

Venus toond bathing in the river, (piel :1--21001111.2 110.2t that way.

New vrumg hi- bun, new tillil his quiver.

With -kill rhop his harprest dart.

With ali his might his bow he crew; Switi to hi- beslutron prent's heart

The 101) well-guided arrow flew.

I faint! I die! the goddelená (riel ;

() cruel, coulel-t thou find none other, To wreck thy yleen on? Parricide!

Like Vero, thou hast slain thy mother.

Poor ('upil sobbing saree could speak :

Inderd, mamma, I ilid not know ye:
Alas! how many my mistake;
I took

you
for
yolir

likeness ('loe.

VENUS MISTAKEN.

When Cloe's picture was to Venus shown,
Surpris’d, the goddess took it for her own.
And what, said she, does this bold painter mean?
When was I bathing thus, and naked seen?

Pleas’d Cupid heard, and check’d his mother's

pride: And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cried. 'Tis Cloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast: Friend Howard's genius fancied all the rest.

A SONG.

IF wine and music have the power
To ease the sickness of the soul ;
Let Phoebus every string explore;
And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl.
Let them their friendly aid employ,
To make my Cloe's absence light;
And seek for pleasure, to destroy
The sorrows of this live-long night.

But she to-morrow will return;
Venus, be thou to-morrow great ;
Thy myrtles strow, thy odours burn;
And meet thy fav’rite nymph in state.

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Kind goddess, to no other powers
Let us to-morrow's blessings own:
Thy darling loves shall guide the hours,
And all the day be thine alone.

THE DOVE.

-Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ ?-VIRG.

Iv Virgil's sacred verse we find,

That passion can depress or raise The heavenly as the human mind:

Who dare deny what Virgil says?

But if they should, what our great master

Hlas thus laid down, my tale shall prove. Fair Venus wept the sad disaster

Of having lost her favourite Dove.

In complaisance poor C'upil mourn'd;

Ilis grief reliev'l his mother's pain; He vow'll he'll leave no stone unturn'd,

But she shoukl hare her Dove again.

Though none, sail he, shall yet be nam’d,

I know the felon well enough: But be she not, mamma, condemn'd

Without a fair and legal proof.

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