"Unlov❜d, unloving, 'twas his fate to bleed; SON G. HEN thy beauty appears WHE In its graces and airs, All bright as an Angel new dropt from the sky; At distance I gaze and am aw'd by my fears, So ftrangely you dazzle my eye! But when without art, Your kind thoughts you impart, When your love runs in blushes thro' every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, Then I know you're a woman again. There's There's a paffion and pride In our fex, fhe reply'd, And thus, might I gratify:both, I would do: Still an Angel appear to each lover befide, But ftill be a woman to you. T SONG. HYRSIS, a young and am'rous fwain, Saw two, the Beauties of the plain; Who both his heart fubdue: Gay Cælia's eyes were dazzling fair, Sabina's easy shape and air With fofter magick drew. He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove, Lives in a fond romance of love, And feems for each to die ; 'Till each a little spiteful grown, Sabina, Cælia's shape ran down, And the Sabina's eye. Their envy made the shepherd find Those eyes which love could only blind; So fet the lover, free : No more he haunts the grove or ftream, Or with a true-love knot and name Engraves a wounded tree. Ah Cælia! fly Sabina cry'd, Tho' neither love, we're both deny'd; Now to support the fex's pride, Let either fix the dart. Poor girl, fays Cælia, fay no more; For fhou'd the fwain but one adore, That fpite which broke his chains before, Wou'd break the other's heart. MY SONG. Y days have been so wond'rous free, With careless eafe from tree to tree. Were but as blefs'd as I. Afk Ask gliding waters, if a tear, Of mine increas'd their ftream? Or afk the flying gales, if e'er I lent one figh to them? But now my former days retire, The tender chains of sweet defire Are fix'd upon my thought. Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines ! Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds! With all of nature, all of art. Affift the dear defign; O teach a young, unpractis'd 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 paffion in my mind Is mix'd with soft diftress; Yet while the Fair I love is kind, I cannot wish it less. ANACREONTI C. WH HEN spring came on with fresh delight, While easy breezes, fofter rain, That Nature went to meet with Love. Green was her robe, and green her wreath, Where-e'er fhe trod, 'twas green beneath. Where |