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IV.
The glass, which was at Venus' shrine,

With such mysterious forrow laid :
The garland (and you call it mine)
Which shew'd how youth and beauty fade:

V.
Ten thousand trifle's light as these

Nor can my rage, nor anger, move :
She should be humble, who would pleaser;
And she must suffer, who can love.

VI.
When in my glass I chanc'd to look ;

Of Venus what did I implore ?
That every grace, which thence I took,
Should know to charm my Damon mores

VII.
Reading thy verse'; who heeds, faid I,

If here or there his glances flew ?
O, free for ever be his eye,
Whose heart to me is always true!

VIII.
My bloom indeed, my little flower.

Of Beauty quickly lost its pride :
For, fever'd from its native bower,
It on thy glowing bosom dy'd.

IX.
Yet car'd I not what might presage

Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth;
Love I esteem’d more strong than Age,

And Time less permanent than Truth.

X.
Why then I weep, forbear to know :

Fall uncontrould, my tears, and free;
O Damon ! 'tis the only woe,
I ever yet conceal'd from thee.

XI.
The secret wound with which I bleed

Shall lie wrapt up, evin in my hearse;
But on my tomb-stone thou falt read

My answer to thy dubious verse.

Answer to CroE JEALOUS, in the fame Stile;

the Author fick.

1

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my

I.
YES,
ES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,

Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour :
And I have liv'd; and we must part.

II.
While now I take laft adieu,

Heave thou no figh, nor shed a tear;
Left

yet my half-clos’d eye may view,
On earth an object worth its care.

III.
From Jealousy's tormenting strife

For ever be thy bosom freed:
That nothing may disturb thy life,

Content I hasten to the dead.

IV, Yet

IV.
Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his amorous parly move thee;
Reflect one moment on his truth

Who dying thus, persists to love thee.

A B E T T E R

ANSW E R.

DE
EAR Cloe, 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 Falstaff says) Let us ev’n talk a little like folks of this world.

11. How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy

The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy : More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

III.
To be vext at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment at once, and my passion, you wrong : You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:

Od’s-life! muft one swear to the truth of a fong?

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IV.

What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, fhews

The difference there is betwixt nature and art : I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose :

And they have my whimfies, but thou hast my heart."

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V.

The God of us verse-men (you know, child) the Sun,

How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run;
At night he declines on his Thetis's breatt.

VI.
So when I am weary'd with wandering all day;

To thee my delight in the evening I come :
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

VII.
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;

And let us like Horace and Lydia agree :
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,

As he was a poet fublimer than me.

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THE

HE Trojan Swain had judg’d the great dispute,

And Beauty's power obtain'd the golden fruit;
When Venus, loose in all her naked charms,
Met Jove's great daughter clad in shining arms.
The wanton goddess view'd the warlike maid
From head to foot, and tauntingly the said :

Yield, fister; rival, yield : naked, you see,
I vanquish : guess how potent I should be,
If to the field I came in armour drest;
Dreadful, like thine, my shield, and terrible mţ crest!

The

The warrior goddess with disdain reply'd :
Thy folly, child, is equal to thy pride :
Lera brave enemy for once advise,
And Venus (if 'tis possible) be wife.
Tlrou, to be strong, must put off every
Thy only armour is thy nakedness;
And more than once (or thou art much bely'd)
By Mars himself that armour has been try'd.

dress :

*

To a young GENTLEMAN in Love.

A TAL E.

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FROM

ROM public noise and factious trife,

From all the busy ills of life,
Take me, my Celia, to thy breast;
And lull

my

wearied fout to rest.
For ever, in this. humble cell,
Let thee and I, my fair one, dwell;
None enter elfe, but Love and he
Shall bar the door, and keep the key.

To painted roofs and thining spires
(Uneasy seats of high defires)
Let the unthinking many croud,
That dare be covetous and proud :
In golden bondage let them wait,
And barter happiness for state.
But oh! my Celia, when thy swain
Desires to see a court again.

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