X. Why then I weep, forbear to know: O Damon! 'tis the only woe, I ever yet conceal'd from thee. The fecret wound with which I bleed Answer to CLOE JEALOUS, in the fame Stile; the AUTHOR fick. I. VES, fairest proof of Beauty's power, YES Dear idol of my panting heart, Nature points this my fatal hour: While now I take my last adieu, Heave thou no figh, nor shed a tear; From Jealoufy's tormenting strife Content I haften to the dead. IV. Yet IV. Yet when some better-fated youth Shall with his amorous parly move thee; Who dying thus, perfifts to love thee. A BETTER DEAR ANSWER. EAR Cloc, how blubber'd is that pretty face! Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd: Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falftaff fays) Let us ev'n talk a little like folks of this world. 11. How canft thou prefume, thou haft leave to deftroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were defign'd to inspire love and joy : More ordinary eyes may ferve people for weeping. III. To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my paffion, you wrong: You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Od's-life! muft one fwear to the truth of a fong? IV. What I fpeak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, fhews I court others in verfe; but I love thee in profe: VOL. I. K V. The The LADY who offers her LOOKING-GLASS to VENUS. Taken from an Epigram of PLATO. FORBEAR to afk me, why I weep; Vext Cloe to her shepherd faid; "Tis for my two poor ftraggling sheep, For mind I what you late have writ? The ways, where changing Cupid flies? III. Your riddle purpos'd to rehearse The general power that beauty has : But why did no peculiar verse Defcribe one charm of Cloe's face? IV. The IV. The glafs, which was at Venus' shrine, Ten thousand trifles light as these Nor can my rage, nor anger, move: When in my glass I chanc'd to look; That every grace, which thence I took, Should know to charm my Damon more, Reading thy verfe; who heeds, faid I, Whofe heart to me is always true! VIII. My bloom indeed, my little flower. Yet car'd I not what might prefage Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth; Love I efteem'd more ftrong than Age, And Time lefs permanent than Truth. X. Why then I weep, forbear to know: I ever yet conceal'd from thee. The fecret wound with which I bleed Answer to CLOE JEALOUS, in the fame Stile; the AUTHOR fick. YE I. TES, faireft proof of Beauty's power, Nature points this my fatal hour: While now I take my last adieu, Heave thou no figh, nor shed a tear; From Jealoufy's tormenting ftrife Content I haften to the dead. IV. Yet |