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See gentle brooks, how quietly they glide,
Kiffing the rugged banks on either fide;
While in their crystal streams at once they show,
And with them feed the flowers which they be-
ftow:

Though rudely throng'd by a too near embrace,
In gentle murmurs they keep on their pace

To the lov'd fea; for ftreams have their defires;
Cool as they are, they feel love's powerful fires,
And with fuch paffion, that if any force,
Stop or moleft them in their amorous course,
They fwell, break down with rage, and ravage

o'er

The banks they kifs'd, and flowers they fed before.

Submit then, Calia, ere you be reduc'd,
For rebels, vanquish'd once, are vilely us'd.
Beauty's no more but the dead foil, which Love
Manures, and does by wife commerce improve:
Sailing by fighs, through feas of tears, he fends
Courtships from foreign hearts, for your own ends:
Cherish the trade, for as with Indians we
Get gold and jewels, for our trumpery,
So to each other, for their ufelefs toys,
Lovers afford whole magazines of joys.
But, if you're fond of baubles, be, and starve,
Your gewgaw reputation still preserve ;
Live upon modefty and empty fame,
Foregoing fenfe for a fantastic name.

THE DISCOVERY. ELIA, that faithful fervant you disown,

own:

But bright ideas, fuch as you infpire,
We can no more conceal than not admire.
My heart at home in my own breaft did dwell,
Like humble hermit in a peaceful cell:
Unknown and undisturb'd it rested there,
Stranger alike to Hope and to Despair.
Now Love with a tumultuous train invades
The facred quiet of thofe hallow'd fhades;
His fatal flames fhine out to every eye,
Like blazing comets in a winter fky.
How can my paffion merit your offence,
That challenges fo little recompence?
For I am one born only to admire,
Too humble e'er to hope, fcarce to defire.
A thing, whofe blifs depends upon your will,
Who would be proud you'd deign to use him ill.
Then give me leave to glory in my chain,
My fruitless fighs, and my unpity'd pain,
Let me but ever love, and ever be
Th' example of your power and cruelty.
Since so much scorn does in your breast reside,
Be more indulgent to its mother Pride.
Kill all you strike, and trample on their graves;
But own the fates of your negle&ted flaves:
When in the crowd yours undiftinguish'd lies
You give away the triumph of your eyes.
Perhaps (obtaining this) you'll think Í find
More mercy, than your anger has defign'd:
But Love has carefully defign'd for me,
The laft perfection of mifery,

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THE When to the Trojans they grew kind,

HE utmost grace the Greeks could fhew,

Was with their arms to let them go,

And leave their lingering wives behind.
They beat the men, and burnt the town:'
Then all the baggage was their own.
II.

There the kind deity of wine

Kifs'd the foft wanton god of love; This clapp'd his wings, that prefs'd his vine; And their bepowers united move, While each brave Greek embrac'd his punk, Lull'd her asleep, and then grew drunk. 4 [B] 2

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WHILE on thofe lovely looks I gaze,

In

To fee a wretch pursuing,

raptures of a blefs'd amaze,
His pleafing happy ruin :

'Tis not for pity that I move;
His fate is too afpiring,

Whole heart, broke with a load of love,
Dies wishing and admiring.

II.
But if this murder you'd forego,
Your flave from death removing;
Let me your art of charming know,
Or learn you mine of loving.
But, whether life or death betide,
In love 'tis equal measure;
The victor lives with empty pride,
The vanquish'd die with pleasure.

UPON

HIS LEAVING HIS MISTRESS.

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Cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor fwain that fighs for you,
For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no, your heart to move
A furer way I'll try ;

And, to revenge my flighted love,

Will ftill love on, will still love on, and die.

II.

When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies,
And you to mind fhall call
The fighs that now unpity'd rife,
The tears that vainly fall:

That welcome hour that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;

For fuch a faithful tender heart

Can never break, can never break in vain.

ASON G.
I.

Y dear mistress has a heart

MY

Soft as thofe kind looks fhe gave me, When, with love's refiftlefs art,

And her eyes, she did enflave me.
But her conftancy's fo weak,

She's fo wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break,
Should we live one day afunder.
II.

Melting joys about her move,
Killing pleafures, wounding bliffes;
She can drefs her eyes in love,

And her lips can warm with kiffes.
Angels liften when the fpeaks,

She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day afunder.

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FROM

A LETTER

ARTEMISA IN THE TOWN,

TO CLOE IN THE COUNTRY.

LOE, by your command in verfe I write; bid me ride

and fight:

Such talents better with our fex agree,
Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry.
Among the men, I mean the men of wit,
(At least they pass'd for such before they writ)
How many bold adventurers for the bays,
Proudly defigning large returns of praise;
Who durft that stormy pathlefs world explore,
Where foon dafh'd back, and wreck'd on the dull
fhore,

Broke of that little ftock they had before!
How would a woman's tottering barque be toft,
Where flouteft fhips (the men of wit) are loft!
When I reflect on this, I ftraight grow wife,
And my own felf I gravely thus advise :
Dear Artemifa! poetry's a fnare;
Bedlam has many manfions, have a care;
Your Mufe diverts you, makes the reader fad;
You think yourfelf infpir'd, he thinks you mad.
Confider too, 'twill be difcreetly done,

To make yourself the fiddle of the town.
To find th' ill-humour'd pleasure at their need:
Curs'd when you fail, and fcorn'd when you fuc-
ceed.

Thus, like an arrant woman as I am,

No fooner well convinc'd writing 's a shame,
That Whore is fcarce a more reproachful name
Than Poetefs

Like men that marry, or like maids that woo,
Becaufe 'tis th' very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the contradiction and the fin,
Methinks I ftand on thorns till I begin.

}

Y' expect to hear, at least, what love has paft In this lewd town, fince you and I saw last; What change has happen'd of intrigues, and whe

ther

The old ones laft, and who and who's together.
But how, my dearest Cloe, fhould I fet
My pen to write what I would fain forget!
Or name that loft thing Love, without a tear,
Since fo debauch'd by ill-bred customs here?
Love, the most generous paffion of the mind,
The fofteft refuge innocence can find;

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