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O may no wight e'er pennyless come there, Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless
See! cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd, Scattering, like blooming maid, their glances round,
With pamper'd look draw little eyes aside; And must be bought, though penury betide. The plumb all azure and the nut all brown, And here each season do those cakes abide, Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.
Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils try'd,
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave: Ah! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave, Whose art did first these dulcet cates display A motive fair to learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray; Till reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
DESCRIBING THE SORROW OF AN INGENUOUS MIND ON THE MELANCHOLY EVENT OF A LICENTIOUS AMOUR.
WHY mourns my friend? why weeps his downcast eye?
That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine? Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring ne'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.
Art thou not lodg'd in fortune's warm embrace? Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Blest in thy song, and blest in every grace
That wins the friend, or that inchants the fair?
Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain;
Not Damon's friendship can my peace restore; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain,
And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more.
For oh that nature on my birth had frown'd,
But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child,
Of folly studious, ev'n of vices vain,
Ah vices! gilded by the rich and gay!
Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name,
Expence, and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame, Sustain❜d by virtue, but betray'd by love.
School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles,
And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn,
Then, while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care,
To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest?
Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame :
"Henry," she said, " by thy dear form subdued, See the sad relics of a nymph undone ! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd;
I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return?
Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,
Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
Ye flowers that well reproach a nymph so frail;
Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;
Thus for your sake I shun each human eye;
Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove, And let me silent seek some friendly shore; There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name;
Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Not such the precepts from his lips I drew!
Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,
And pity welcome to my native soil."