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CLII.

WHEN Molly smiles beneath her cow,
I feel my heart-I can't tell how;
When Molly is on Sunday drest,
On Sundays I can take no rest.

What can I do? on worky days
I leave my work on her to gaze.
What shall I say? At sermons, I
Forget the text when Molly's by.

Good master curate, teach me how
To mind your preaching, and my plough:
And if for this you'll raise a spell,

A good fat goose shall thank you well.

Unknown.

CLIII.

ROBIN'S COMPLAINT.

DID ever swain a nymph adore,
As I ungrateful Nanny do?
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore,
Or ever broken heart so true?

My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she
Has never wet a cheek for me.

If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay?

Or linger, when she bid me run? She only had the word to say,

And all she wish'd was quickly done.

I always think of her, but she
Does ne'er bestow a thought on me.

To let her cows my clover taste,
Have I not rose by break of day?

Did ever Nanny's heifers fast,

If Robin in his barn had hay? Though to my fields they welcome were, I ne'er was welcome yet to her.

If ever Nanny lost a sheep,

Then cheerfully I gave her two; And I her lambs did safely keep,

Within my folds, in frost and snow.
Have they not there from cold been free?
But Nanny still is cold to me.

When Nanny to the well did come,
'Twas I that did her pitchers fill;
Full as they were, I brought them home:
Her corn I carried to the mill.
My back did bear the sack, but she
Will never bear the sight of me.

To Nanny's poultry oats I gave,

I'm sure they always had the best:
Within this week her pigeons have
Ate up a peck of pease, at least:
Her little pigeons kiss, but she
Will never take a kiss from me.
Must Robin always Nanny woo,
And Nanny still on Robin frown?
Alas, poor wretch! what shall I do,
If Nanny does not love me soon?
If no relief to me she'll bring,
I'll hang me in her apron-string.

Unknown.

CLIV.

THE FAIR STRANGER.

HAPPY and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair
To find a new victorious fair.

Till you, descending on our plains,
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you reign without control,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

Your smiles have more of conquering charms
Than all your native country's arms:
Their troops we can expel with ease,

Who vanquish only when we please.

But in your eyes, O! there's the spell!
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay,
Yet kill us if you go away.

CLV.

John Dryden.

A LOVER'S MESSAGE.

"YE little nymphs that hourly wait
To bring from Celia's eyes my fate,
Tell her my pain in softest sighs,
And gently whisper Strephon dies.
"But if this won't her pity move,
And the coy nymph disdains to love,
Tell her, instead, 'tis all a lie,
And haughty Strephon scorns to die.'

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Unknown.

CLVI.

ABSENCE.

WITH leaden foot Time creeps along,
While Delia is away,

With her, nor plaintive was the song,
Nor tedious was the day.

Ah! envious power! reverse my doom,
Now double thy career;

Strain every nerve, stretch every plume,

And rest them when she's here.

Richard Jago.

CLVII.

WRITTEN AT AN INN.

To thee, fair Freedom! I retire,
From flattery, feasting, dice and din;
Nor art thou found in domes much higher
Than the lone cot or humble Inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champagne;
For Freedom crowns it, at an Inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And choose my lodgings at an Inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys what Courts have not in store,
It buys me Freedom, at an Inn.

And now once more I shape my way

Through rain or shine, through thick or thin, Secure to meet, at close of day,

With kind reception at an Inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,

May sigh to think how oft he found
The warmest welcome-at an Inn.

William Shenstone.

CLVIII.

As t'other day o'er the green meadow I pass'd,
A swain overtook me, and held my hand fast;
Then cried, my dear Lucy, thou cause of my care,
How long must thy faithful young Thyrsis despair?
To grant my petition, no longer be shy;

But frowning, I answer'd, "O, fie, shepherd, fie."

He told me his fondness like time should endure,
That beauty which kindled his flame 'twould secure;
That all my sweet charms were for homage design'd,
And youth was the season to love and be kind:
Lord, what could I say? I could hardly deny,
And faintly I uttered, "O, fie, shepherd, fie."

He swore with a kiss, that he could not refrain,
I told him 'twas rude, -but he kiss'd me again;
My conduct, ye fair ones, in question ne'er call,
Nor think I did wrong,-I did nothing at all!
Resolved to resist, yet inclined to comply,
I leave it for you to say, "Fie, shepherd, fie."
Unknown

CLIX.

YOUNG Colin protests I'm his joy and delight;
He's ever unhappy when I'm from his sight:
He wants to be with me wherever I go;
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so.

His pleasure all day is to sit by my side;

He pipes and he sings, though I frown and I chide;
I bid him depart: but he smiling, says "No."
The deuce sure is in him for plaguing me so.

He often requests me his flame to relieve;
I ask him what favour he hopes to receive :
His answer's a sigh, while in blushes I glow;
What mortal, beside him, would plague a maid so?

This breast-knot he yesterday brought from the wake,
And softly entreated I'd wear't for his sake,
Such trifles are easy enough to bestow:

I sure deserve more for his plaguing me so!

He hands me each eve from the cot to the plain,
And meets me each morn to conduct me again;
But what's his intention I wish I could know,
For I'd rather be married than plagued by him so.
Unknown.

CLX.

WERE I a king, I could command content;
Were I obscure, hidden should be my cares;
Or were I dead, no cares should me torment,
Nor hopes, nor hates, nor loves, nor griefs, nor fears.
A doubtful choice,—of these three which to crave,
A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave.

Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford.

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