Love arms himself in Celia's eyes

Whene'er weak Reason would rebel;

And every time I dare be wise,
Alas! a deeper wound I feel.

Repeated thoughts present the ill

Which seeing I must still endure; They tell me Love has darts to kill,

And Wisdom has no power to cure.

Then, cruel Reason, give me rest,

Quit in my heart thy feeble hold; Go try thy force in Celia's breast,

For that is disengaged and cold.

There all thy nicest arts employ;

Confess thyself her beauty's slave, And argue, whilst she may destroy, How great, how godlike 't is to save.

YOUNG

YOUNG I am, and yet unskill'd
How to make a lover yield;
How to keep, and how to gain,
When to love, and when to feign.

Take me, take me, some of
you,
While I yet am young and true;
Ere I can my soul disguise,
Heave my breasts, and roll my eyes.

Stay not till I learn the way
How to lie and to betray;
He that has me first, is blest,
For I may deceive the rest.

Could I find a blooming youth
Full of love, and full of truth,
Brisk, and of a janty mien,
I should long to be fifteen.

SAY

SAY not, OLINDA, I despise

The faded glories of your face, The languish'd vigour of your eyes, And that once only-loved embrace.

In vain, in vain, my constant heart,
On aged wings, attempts to meet,
With wonted speed, those flames you dart,
It faints, and flutters at your feet.

I blame not your decay of power,

You may have pointed beauties still, Tho' me, alas! they wound no more; You cannot hurt what cannot feel.

On youthful climes your beams display,
There you may cherish with your heat,
And rise the sun to gild their day,
To me, benighted, when you set.

O NYMPH!

O NYMPH! of Fortune's smiles beware,
Nor heed the syren's flattering tongue;
She lures thee to the haunts of care,

Where sorrow pours a ceaseless, song.

Ah! what are all her piles of gold?

Can those the hosts of care control? The splendour which thine eyes behold Is not the sunshine of the soul.

To Love alone thy homage pay,

The queen of every true delight: Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day, And bless the visions of the night.

WOLCOTT.

WHY, lovely charmer, tell me why,
So very kind, so very shy?
Why does that cold forbidding air
Give damps of sorrow and despair?

Or

Or why that smile my soul subdue,
And kindle up my flames anew?

In vain you strive with all your art
By turns to freeze and fire my heart:
When I behold a face so fair,

So sweet a look, so soft an air,

My ravish'd soul is charm'd all o'er,
I cannot love thee less,, nor more.

YE virgin powers, defend my heart
From amorous looks and smiles;
From saucy love, or nicer art,

Which most our sex beguiles;
From sighs and vows, from awful fears

That do to pity move;

From speaking silence, and from tears,
Those springs that water love.

But if thro' passion I grow blind,
Let honour be my guide;
And where frail nature seems inclined,
There place a guard of pride.

N

A heart