TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET, WRITTEN IN HER MILTON, BY MR. BRADBURY. SEE here how bright the first-born virgin shone, TO THE LADY DURSLEY:1 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd, You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace 1 Elizabeth, daughter of Baptist Noel, Viscount Campden. She died 30 July, 1719. Her husband, Charles Earl of Berkeley (when Lord Dursley), had been envoy extraordinary and plenipotentiary to the States of Holland, from whence he returned in 1695. The stock of beauty destin'd for the race: You, happy saint, the serpent's power control: Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul: And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Which gains a Heav'n, for earthly Eden lost. With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd, In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd: Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote. TO MY LORD BUCKHURST.1 VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT. THE am'rous youth, whose tender breast Take care, O beauteous child, take care, 1 Lionel, afterwards Duke of Dorset, to whom Prior dedi cated his poems. Nor vainly hope, the queen of love The queen of love, who soon will see Her eyes with tears no more will flow She deep will mark her new disgrace. AN ODE. WHILE from our looks, fair nymph, you guess My heavy eyes, you say, confess There needs, alas! but little art, To have this fatal secret found: With the same ease you threw the dart, How can I see 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? The wretch in double fetters bound A SONG. In vain you tell your parting lover I may once more repeat my pain; Once more in dying notes complain Of slighted vows, and cold disdain. THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD. ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow swains, The nymphs and shepherds round him came: His grief some pity, others blame; The fatal cause all kindly seek: He mingled his concern with theirs; Clorinda came among the rest; She fear'd too much to know. The shepherd rais'd his mournful head; 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? |