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II.
Is it, because you fear to share

The ills that Love moleft;
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the amorous breast ?

III.
Alas! by some degree of woe
We
every

bliss muft gain :
The heart can ne'er a transport know,

That never feels a pain.

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Written at Mr. POPE's House at Twickenham,

which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE.

In August, 1735

I.

GO
0, Thames, and tell the busy town,

Not all its wealth or pride
Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery side :

II.
Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd

The Muses' green retreat,
With every smile of Nature grac'd,
With every art complete.

III. Bull

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III.
But now, sweet Bard, thy heavenly song

Enchants us here no more ;
Their darling glory lost too long
Thy once-lov'd fades deplore.

IV.
Yet still, for beauteous Greville's fake,

The Muses here remain;
Greville, whose eyes have power to make

A Pope of every swain.

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NON

ONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair :
But Love can hope, where Reason would despair.

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To Mr. WEST, at WICKHAM *.

Written in the Year 1740.

FAIN

AIR Nature's sweet fimplicity,

With elegance refind,
well in thy feat, my friend, I see,

But better in thy mind.
To both, from courts and all their state,

Eager I fly, to prove
Joys far above a Courtier's fate,

Tranquillity and Love.

Ta

* See the Inscriptions in Mr. West's Poems.

TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE.

ONCE, by the Mufe alone inspir’d

I sung my amorous strains : No serious love my bosom fir'd ; Yet every tender maid, deceiv'd,, The idly-mournful tale believ'd,

And wept my fancied pains.

But Venus now, to punish me

For having feign'd so well,
Has made my heart so fond of thee,
That not the whole Aonian choir
Can accents soft enough inspire,,

Its real flame to tell.

TO THE SAME;

WITH

H A MM O N D’S ELE GI E S..

A
LL that of Love can be expressid,

In these soft numbers see ;
But, Lucy, would you know the rest,

It must be read in me. .

TO THE SAME.

T him

who in an hour muft die

Not swifter feems that hour to fly,
Than Now the minutes seem to me,
Which keep me from the sight of thee..
Not more that trembling wretch would givez-
Another day or year to live ;
Than I to shorten what remains
Of that long hour which thee detains.
Oh! come to my impatient arms,
Oh! come, with all thy lieavenly charms,
At once to justify and pay
The pain I feel from this delay.

TO THE SAME.

I.
To ease my troubled mind of anxious care,

Last night the secret cafket I explor’d,
Where all the letters of my absent fair

(His richest treasure) careful Love had stor’d:

II.

In every word a magic spell I found

of power to charm eacha busy thought to rest ; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond defire still throbbing in my breast..

III. Se III.

So to his hoarded gold the miser steals,

And loses every sorrow at the sight;
Yet wishes still for more, nor ever feels
Entire contentment, or secure delight.

IV.
Ah! should I lofe thee, my too lovely maid,

Couldlt thou forget thy heart was ever minez
Bear not thy letters should the change upbraid ;
My hand each dear memorial shall relign :

V.
Not one kind word shall in my power remain,

A painful witness of reproach to thee;
And left my heart thould still their sense retain,

My heart shall break, to leave thee wholly free

A PRA YER TO VENUS,

IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE,

Τ Ο Τ Ε Ε S Α Μ Ε.

I.

FA!
AIR Venus, whose delightful shrine surveys

Its front reflected in the filver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy servant pays,

Fresh flowers, and myrtle wreaths, propitious take.

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