A SONG. In vain you tell your parting lover, That bear me far from what I love? Be gentle, and in pity choose TO A LADY: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and leaving me in the argument. Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave, In the dispute whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; You, far from danger as from fear, For seldom your opinions err; Your eyes are always in the right. Why, fair one, would you not rely On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew. AN ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay; When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise ; I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CUPID MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. I took you for your likeness, Chloe. A BETTER ANSWER1. Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! 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: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shews 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. For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, A SIMILE. Dear Thomas, did'st thou never pop A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turned up, Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, They tread on stars, and talk with Gods; Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. EPIGRAM. To John I owed great obligation; Sure John and I are more than quit. ANOTHER. Yes, every poet is a fool : By demonstration Ned can show it: Happy, could Ned's inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet. FOR MY OWN TOMB-STONE. To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live alas! one moment sets us even. : Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven! |