Sylvia's like autumn ripe, yet mild as May, More bright than noon, yet fresh as early day; E'en spring displeases, when the fhines not here; But, blefs'd with her, 'tis fpring throughout the year.
Say, Daphnis, fay, in what glad foil appears, A wondrous Tree that facred Monarchs bears: 86 Tell me but this, and I'll disclaim the prize, And give the conqueft to thy Sylvia's eyes.
Nay, tell me first, in what more happy fields The Thistle springs, to which the Lilly yields: 90 And then a nobler prize I will refign;
For Sylvia, charming Sylvia, fhall be thine.
Ceafe to contend; for, Daphnis, I decree, The bowl to Strephon, and the lamb to thee: Bleft Swains, whofe Nymphs in every grace excel; Bleft Nymphs, whofe Swains thofe graces fing so well! Now rise, and haste to yonder woodbine bowers, A foft retreat from fudden vernal showers; The turf with rural dainties shall be crown'd, While op'ning blooms diffuse their sweets around. For fee! the gath'ring flocks to fhelter tend, And from the Pleiads fruitful show'rs descend.
TO MRS. M. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
OH be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can send,
LongHealth, long Youth, long Pleasure and a Friend:
Not with those Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years if Life bring nothing new, 5
But like a fieve let ev'ry bleffing thro',
Some joy ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, fome fad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-day? 'tis alas! too clear,
'Tis but the Fun'ral of the former year.
Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face;
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In fome foft dream, or extasy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.
ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE
As fome fond Virgin, whom her mother's care
Drags from the Town to wholesome Country air,
Juft when the learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;
From the dear man unwilling she must sever;
Yet takes one kiss before the parts for ever:
Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,
Saw others happy, and with fighs withdrew;
Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent,
She figh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went.
She went to plain-work, and to purling brooks,
Old-fashion'd halls, dull Aunts, and croaking rooks:
She went from Op'ra, Park, Affembly, Play,
To morning-walks, and pray'rs three hours a-day;
To part her time 'twixt reading and Bohea,
To mufe, and fpill her folitary tea,
Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,
Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon;
Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,
Hum half a tune, tell ftories to the squire;
Up to her godly garret after sev'n,
There ftarve and pray, for that's the to heav'n.
Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;
Whofe game is Whisk, whofe treat a toast in fack:
Who vifits with a Gun, prefents you birds,
Then gives a fmacking bufs, and cries,-- No words!
Or with his hounds comes hallowing from the ftable,
Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;
Whose laughs are hearty, though his jests are coarse,
And loves
you best of all things—but his horse.
In fome fair ev'ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of Triumphs in the rural shade;
In penfive thought recall the fancy'd fcene,
See Coronations rife on every green;
Before you pass th' imaginary fights
Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter'd
While the spread fan o'erfhades your clofing eyes;
Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.
Thus vanish fceptres, coronets, and balls,
And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!
So when your Slave, at fome dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with head-achs, or the want of rhyme)
Stands in the ftreets, abftracted from the crew,
And while he seems to fludy, thinks of you;
Juft when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, 45
Or fees the blush of foft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite,
Streets, Chairs, and Coxcombs, rush upon my fight;
Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,
Look four, and hum a Tune, as you may now. 50
AN UNFORTUNATE YOUNG LADY.*
WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? "Tis fhe!--but why that bleeding bofom gor'd, Why dimly gleams the vifionary fword?
* See the Duke of Buckingham's verfes to a Lady defigning to retire into a Monastery, compared with Mr. Pope's Letters to several Ladies, p. 206. She seems to be the fame person whose unfortunate death is the subject of this poem?
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