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XXIII.

SET

BY

M R. D E F E S c H.

IN

N vain, alas! poor Strephon tries

To ease his tortur'd breast; Since Amoret the curè denies,

And makes his pain a jeft.

Ah! fair-one, why to me so coy?

And why to him fo true,
Who with more coldness flights the joy,

Than I with love pursue?

Die then, unhappy lover! die ;

For, since she gives thee death, The world has nothing that can buy

A minute more of breath.

Yet, though I could your scorn outlive,

'Twere folly; since to me Not love itself a joy can give,

But, Amoret, in thee.

XXIV. SET

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ELL! I will never more complain, ,
Or call the Fates unkind;
Alas! how fond it is, how vain !
But self-conceitedness does reign

In every mortal mind.

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Yet I by this have learnt the wit,

Never to grieve or fret :
Contentedly I will submit,
And think that best which they think fit,
Without the least regret.

XXV. SET

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But we do not only find

Here a lovely face or feature ; For she's merciful and kind,

Beauty's answer'd by good-nature.

She is always doing good,

Of her favours never sparing, And, as all good Chriftians Nould,

Keeps poor mortals from despairing,

Jove the power knew of her charms,

And that no man could endure them, So, providing 'gainst all harms,

Gave to her the power to cure them.
And 'twould be a cruel thing,

When her black eyes have rais’d desire,
Should she not her bucket bring,
And kindly help to quench the fire.

XXVI.

XXVI.
Since, Moggy, I mun bid adieu,

How can I help despairing?
Let cruel fate us ftill pursue,

There's nought more worth my caring.

'Twas she alone could calm my soul,

When racking thoughts did grieve me ; Her eyes my trouble could control,

And into joys deceive me.

Farewel, ye brooks ; no more along

Your banks mun I be walking:
No more you'll hear my pipe or fong,

Or pretty Moggy's talking.

But I by death an end will give

To grief, since we mun fever : For who can after parting live,

Qught to be wretched ever.

XXVII.

XXVII.

Some kind angel, gently flying,

Mov'd with pity at my pain, Tell Corinna, I am dying,

Till with joy we meet again.

Tell Corinna, fince we parted,

I have never known delight: And shall soon be broken-hearted,

If I longer want her fight.

Tell her how her lover, mourning,

Thinks each lazy day a year ; Curfing every morn returning,

Since Corinna is not here.

Tell her too, not distant places,

Will she be but true and kind, Join'd with time and change of paces,

E’er shall shake my constant mind.

XXVIII .

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