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3 The flowers she wore along the day;

And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they looked more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.

4 Undressed at evening when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.

5 That eye dropped sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous check.

6 Dissembling what I knew too well, My love, my life, said I, explain This change of humour; pr'ythee, tell:

That falling tear-What does it mean!

7 She sighed; she smiled; and to the flowers. Pointing, the lovely moralist said;

Sce, friend, in some few fleeting hours,

See yonder, what a change is made.

8 Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

9 At dawn poor Stella danced and sung; The amorous youth around her bowed; At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.

10 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 LOOKING GLASS TO VENUS.1

VENUS, take my votive glass,

Since I am not what I was;

What from this day I shall be,

Venus, let me never see.

CLOE JEALOUS.

1 FORBEAR to ask me, why I weep;
Vexed Cloe to her shepherd said;
"Tis for my two poor straggling sheep
Perhaps, or for my squirrel dead.

2 For mind I what you late have writ?
Your subtle questions, and replies;
Emblems, to teach a female wit

The ways, where changing Cupid flies.

3 Your riddle purposed to rehearse

The general power that beauty has;
But why did no peculiar verse

Describe one charm of Cloe's face?

4 The glass, which was at Venus' shrine, With such mysterious sorrow laid; The garland (and you call it mine)

Which showed how youth and beauty fade.

1 From an epigram of Plato. See Rambler, Number 143.

5 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.

6 When in my glass I chanced to look;
Of Venus what did I implore?
That every grace which thence I took,
Should know to charm my Damon more.

7 Reading thy verse, who heeds, said I,
If here or there his glances flew;
O free for ever be his eye,

Whose heart to me is always true!

8 My bloom indeed, my little flower
Of beauty quickly lost its pride;
For, severed from its native bower,
It on thy glowing bosom died.

9 Yet cared I not what might presage,

Or withered wreath, or fleeting youth; Love I esteemed more strong than age,

And Time less permanent than Truth.

10 Why then I weep, forbear to know: Fall uncontrolled my tears, and free; O Damon! 'tis the only woe

I ever yet concealed from thee.

11 The secret wound with which I bleed

Shall lie wrapped up even in my hearse;
But on my tombstone thou shalt read
My answer to thy dubious verse.

ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS.

IN THE SAME STYLE. THE AUTHOR SICK.

1 YES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have lived,—and we must part.

2 While now I take my last adieu,

Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;
Lest yet my half-closed eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.

3 From Jealousy's tormenting strife
For ever be thy bosom freed;
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.

4 Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his amorous parley move thee:
Reflect one moment on his truth

Who, dying thus, persists to love thee.

A BETTER ANSWER.

1 DEAR Cloe, how blubbered is that pretty face,

Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled; Pry'thee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us even talk a little like folks of this world.

2 How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

1

3 To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion you

wrong;

You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:

Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

4 What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt nature and art;
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my

heart!

5 The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest;

If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.

6 So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;1
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

7 Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.

PALLAS AND VENUS.

AN EPIGRAM.

THE Trojan swain had judged the great dispute,
And Beauty's power obtained the golden fruit;

1 My heart with her, but as guest-wise, sojourn'd;

And now to Helen it is home return'd,

There to remain.

Midsummer Night's Dream, A. iii. S. 2.

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