Then cease for souls averse to sigh,
If Nature cross ye, so do I;
My weapon there unfeather'd flies,

And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
But if the mutual charms I find

By which she links you mind to mind,
They wing my shafts, I poize the darts,
And strike from both, through both

your

hearts.'

ANACREONTIC.

GAY Bacchus, liking Estcourt's wine,
A noble meal bespoke us;
And for the guests that were to dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.
The god near Cupid drew his chair,
Near Comus, Jocus placed;

For wine makes Love forget its care,
And mirth exalts a feast.

The more to please the sprightly god,
Each sweet engaging Grace

Put on some clothes to come abroad,
And took a waiter's place.

Then Cupid named at every glass

A lady of the sky;

While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass,

And had it bumper-high.

Fat Comus toss'd his brimmers o'er,

And always got the most;

Jocus took care to fill him more,

Whene'er he miss'd the toast.

They call'd, and drank at every touch;
He fill'd and drank again;
And if the gods can take too much,
'Tis said, they did so then.

Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
By reckoning his deceits;

And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue,
With all his staggering gaits:

And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways,

And tales without a jest ;

While Comus call'd his witty plays

But waggeries at best.

Such talk soon set them all at odds;
And, had I Homer's pen,
I'd sing ye, how they drank like gods,
And how they fought like men.

To part the fray, the Graces fly,
Who make them soon agree;
Nay, had the Furies selves been nigh,
They still were three to three.
Bacchus appeased, raised Cupid up,
And gave him back his bow;
But kept some darts to stir the cup,
Where sack and sugar flow.

Jocus took Comus' rosy crown,

And gaily wore the prize,

And thrice, in mirth, he push'd him down, As thrice he strove to rise.

Then Cupid sought the myrtle grove

Where Venus did recline,

And Venus close embracing Love,

They join'd to rail at wine.

And Comus loudly cursing Wit,
Roll'd off to some retreat,
Where boon companions gravely sit
In fat unwieldy state.

Bacchus and Jocus still behind,
For one fresh glass prepare;
They kiss, and are exceeding kind,
And vow to be sincere.

But part in time, whoever hear
This our instructive song;
For though such friendships may be dear,
They can't continue long.

SONG.

WHEN thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky;
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eye!

' But when, without art,

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants

in your heart,

Then I know you're a woman again.'

There's a passion and pride

In our sex, (she replied)

And thus, might I gratify both, I would do: Still an angel appear to each lover beside, But still be a woman to you.'

2

SONG.

THYRSIS, a young and amorous swain,
Saw two, the beauties of the plain,
Who both his heart subdue;

Gay Cælia's eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina's easy shape and air

With softer magic drew.

He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove, Lives in a fond romance of love,

And seems for each to die; Till each, a little spiteful grown, Sabina, Cælia's shape ran down, And she Sabina's eye.

Their envy made the shepherd find

Those eyes

which love could only blind;

So set the lover free:

No more he haunts the grove or stream,
Or with a true-love knot and name

Engraves a wounded tree.

Ah, Cælia! (sly Sabina cried)

Though neither love, we're both denied;
Now to support the sex's pride,
Let either fix the dart.'

'Poor girl, (says Cælia) say no more;
For should the swain but one adore,
That spite which broke his chains before,
Would break the other's heart.'

SONG.

My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly,
With careless ease, from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increased their stream?

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractised heart,
To make my Nancy mine.

The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;

Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress;

Yet while the Fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.

185