Does it not more afflict your heart, The meanest bud that falls from mine? THE GARLAND. THE pride of every grove I chose, At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day: And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at evening when she found Their odours lost, their colours past; She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, This change of humour: pr'ythee, tell: She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May, 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. THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKINGGLASS TO VENUS.1 VENUS, take my votive glass; CLOE JEALOUS. FORBEAR to ask me, why I weep; For mind I what you late have writ? The ways, where changing Cupid flies. Your riddle purpos'd to rehearse The general power that beauty has; But why did no peculiar verse Describe one charm of Cloe's face? 1 Taken from an epigram of Plato. See Rambler, Number 143. The glass, which was at Venus' shrine, 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. When in my glass I chanc'd to look; Should know to charm my Damon more. Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I, Whose heart to me is always true. My bloom indeed, my little flower 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: O Damon! 'tis the only woe I ever yet conceal'd from thee. The secret wound with which I bleed ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS, IN THE SAME STYLE. THE AUTHOR SICK. YES, fairest proof of Beauty's power, 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 VOL. I. |