S

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

Graham of Gartmore

CXXXIV

TO A YOUNG LADY

WEET stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.

W. Cowper

CXXXV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

LEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile-
Tho shut so close thy laughing eyes,

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow;
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breas :

-And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!

S. Rogers

FOR

CXXXVI

OR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to Love,

And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;

All other blessings I resign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

J. Thomson

CXXXVII

"HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow'd name;

Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay-

When Cloe noted her desire

That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:

I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

M. Prior

WHEN

CXXXVIII

HEN lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is to die.

O. Goldsmith