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Is it, because you fear to share
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
Alas! by fome degree of woe
We every bliss must gain :
The heart can ne'er a transport know,
V E R SE S,
Written at Mr. POPE's Houfe at Twickenham, which he had lent to Mrs. GREVILLE.
In Auguft, 1735.1
O, Thames, and tell the bufy town,
Not all its wealth or pride
Could tempt me from the charms that crown
Thy rural flowery fide :
Thy flowery fide, where Pope has plac'd
The Mufes' green retreat,
With every fmile of Nature grac'd,
With every art complete.
But now, fweet Bard, thy heavenly song
Yet ftill, for beauteous Greville's fake,
E P I G R A M.
NONE without hope e'er lov'd the brightest fair:
But Love can hope, where Reason would despair.
To Mr. WEST, at WICKHAM *.
Written in the Year 1740.
AIR Nature's sweet fimplicity,
With elegance refin’d,
Well in thy feat, my friend, 1 fee,
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.
See the Infcriptions in Mr. Weft's Poems.
TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE.
NCE, by the Muse alone inspir'd
I fung my amorous strains :
No ferious love my bofom fir'd;
But Venus now, to punish me
Its real flame to tell.
TO THE SAME;
HAMMOND'S ELEGIE S
LL that of Love can be exprefs'd,
In these foft numbers fee;
But, Lucy, would you know the reft,
It must be read in me..
TO THE SAM E.
O him who in an hour muft die,
Not more that trembling wretch would give,
Than I to fhorten what remains
Of that long hour which thee detains.
Oh! come to my impatient arms,
Oh! come, with all thy heavenly charms,
At once to justify and pay
The pain I feel from this delay.
TO THE SAME.
Teafe my troubled mind of anxious care,.
Last night the fecret cafket I explor'd,
Where all the letters of my absent fair
In every word a magic spell I found
Of power to charm each busy thought to rest; Though every word increas'd the tender wound Of fond defire still throbbing in my breast..
So to his hoarded gold the mifer fteals,
Ah! fhould I lofe thee, my too lovely maid,
Not one kind word fhall in my power remain,
And left my heart fhould still their sense retain,
A PRAYER TO VENUS, IN HER TEMPLE AT STOWE.
TO THE SAME.
FAIR Venus, whofe delightful fhrine furveys
Its front reflected in the filver lake,
These humble offerings, which thy fervant pays,