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Yet, Venus, why do I each morn prepare
The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair?
Why do I all day lament and sigh,
Unless the beauteous maid be nigh 2
And why all night pursue her in my dreams,
Through flowery meads and crystal streams?
Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke:
Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke:
Every state, and every age
Shall own my rule, and fear my rage:
Compell’d by me, thy Muse shall prove,
That all the world was born to love.
Bid thy destin’d lyre discover
Soft desire and gentle pain:
Often praise, and always love her:
Through her ear, her heart obtain.
Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her,
Cupid does with Phoebus reign.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN OVID.l
OvID is the surest guide
You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray.
No, no ; for my virginity,
When I lose that, says Rose, I’ll die:
Behind the elms, last night, cried Dick,
Rose, were you not extremely sick?
1 Translated from the following Madrigal of Gilbert, sur l'Art d'Aimer d’Ovide.
Cette lecture est sans égale,
Ce livre est un petit dédale,
Ou l'esprit prend plaisir d'errer,
Philis, suivez les pas d’Ovide,
C'est le plus agréable guide,
Qu'on peut choisir pour s”égarer.
TEN months after Florimel happen'd to wed,
And was brought in a laudable manner to bed,
She warbled her groans with so charming a voice,
That one half of the parish was stunn'd with the
noise ; -
But when Florimel deign'd to lie privately in,
Ten months before she and her spouse were a-kin,
She chose with such prudence her pangs to conceal,
That her nurse, nay, her midwife, scarce heard her
Learn, husbands, from hence, for the peace of your
That maids make not half such a tumult as wives.
ON his death-bead poor Lubin lies;
His spouse is in despair:
With frequent sobs, and mutual cries,
They both express their care.
FROM her own native France as old Alison past,
She approach'd English Nell with neglect or with
That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste,
Her lady's complexion and eye-brows at Calais.
HER eye-brow box one morning lost,
(The best of folks are oftenest crost)
Sad Helen thus to Jenny said,
Her careless but afflicted maid,
Put me to bed then, wretched Jane ;
Alas! when shall I rise again *
I can behold no mortal now :
For what's an eye without a brow.
IN a dark corner of the house
Poor Helen sits, and sobs and cries;
She will not see her loving spouse,
Nor her more dear picquet-allies:
Unless she find her eye-brows,
She’ll e'en weep out her eyes.
VOL. I. 21
HELEN was just slipt into bed:
Her eye-brows on the toilet lay:
Away the kitten with them fled,
As fees belonging to her prey. 4.
For this misfortune careless Jane, Assure yourself, was loudly rated:
And madam, getting up again, With her own hand the mouse-trap baited.
On little things, as sages write, Depends our human joy or sorrow :
If we don’t catch a mouse to-night, Alas! no eye-brows for to-morrow.
How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?
To answer is no easy task:
• For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays,
Her patches, paint, and jewels on ;
All day let envy view her face,
And Phillis is but twenty-one.