To fum up all the rage of fate Thus, on his Celia's panting breast, Hope of my age, joy of my youth, Bleft miracle of love and truth; All that could e'er be counted mine, My love and life, long fince are thine : A real joy I never knew, Till I believ'd thy paffion true: A real grief I ne'er can find, Till thou prov'ft perjur'd, or unkind. Bleft with thy prefence, I can bear. Had I a wifh that did not bear 30 } 40 The stamp and image of my dear; 46 No: Venus fhall my witness be, O happy thefe of human race! MORAL. 60 WHILE men have these ambitious fancies; And wanton wenches read romances; The moral of the tale I fing (A pofy for a wedding-ring) In this short verse will be confin'd: 70 THE GARLAND. BY THE SAME. I. THE pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet, and lilly fair, The dappl'd pink, and blushing rofe, To deck my charming Cloe's hair. II. At morn the nymph vouchfaft to place III. The flow'rs she wore along the day: And ev'ry nymph and fhepherd faid, That in her hair they lookt more gay Than glowing in their native bed. IV. Undreft at evening, when the found She chang'd her look, and on the ground 5 10 16 V. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. VI. Diffembling what I knew too well, My love, my life, faid I, explain This change of humour: pr'ythee tell: That falling tear-what does it mean? VII. She figh'd; fhe fmil'd: and to the flow'rs VIII. Ah me! the blooming pride of May, IX. At dawn poor Stella danc'd and fung; At night her fatal knell was rung; I faw, and kifs'd her in her fhrowd. 21 26 30 35 X. Such as fhe is, who dy'd to-day; A LOVER'S ANGER. 40 BY THE SAME. As Cloe came into the room t'other day, I peevish began; Where fo long could you stay? In your life-time you never regarded your hour: You promis'd at two; and (pray look, child) 'tis four. A lady's watch needs neither figures nor wheels; 5 'Tis enough, that 'tis loaded with baubles and feals. A temper fo heedlefs no mortal can bear Thus far I went on with a refolute air. Lord bless me! faid fhe; let a body but speak: Here's an ugly hard rose-bud fall'n into my neck: It has hurt me, and vext me to fuch a degreeSee here! for you never believe me; pray fee, |