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Then cease for souls averse to sigh,
And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
By which she links you mind to mind,
GAY Bacchus, liking Estcourt's wine,
For wine makes Love forget its care,
The more to please the sprightly god,
Put on some clothes to come abroad,
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;
Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue,
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;
To part the fray, the Graces fly,
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,
Bacchus and Jocus still behind,
But part in time, whoever hear
WHEN thy beauty appears
All bright as an angel new dropp'd from the sky;
' 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.'
THYRSIS, a young and amorous swain,
Gay Cælia's eyes were dazzling fair,
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
which love could only blind;
So set the lover free:
No more he haunts the grove or stream,
Engraves a wounded tree.
Ah, Cælia! (sly Sabina cried)
Though neither love, we're both denied;
'Poor girl, (says Cælia) say no more;
My days have been so wondrous free,
Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increased their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
But now my former days retire,
With all of nature, all of art,
O teach a young, unpractised heart,
The very thought of change I hate,
Nor ever covet to be great,
'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Yet while the Fair I love is kind,