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Ere he her bald pate shall survey,
And well plied heels to run away.

But, anxious Care, be far from hence;
Vain Surmise, and alter'd sense ;
Mishapen Doubts, the woes they bring;
And Jealousy, of fiercest sting ;
Despair, that solitary stands,
And wrings a halter in his hands;
Flattery false and hollow found,
And Dread, with eye still looking round;
Avarice, bending under pelf:
Conceit, still gazing on herself:
O Love! exclude high-crested Pride,
Nymph of Amazonian stride :
Nor in these walls, like waiting maid,
Be Curiosity survey'd,
That to the keyhole lays her ear,
Listening at the door to hear;
Nor father Time, unless he's found
In triumph led by Beauty bound,
For to yield to Vigour's stroke,
His blunted scythe and hourglass broke.

But come, all ye who know to please; Inviting glance, and downy ease; The heart-born joy, the gentle care ; Soft-breathed wish, and power of prayer; The simple vow, that means no ill; Believing Quiet, submissive Will; Constancy of meekest mind, That suffers long, and still is kind; All ye who put our woes to flight; All ye who minister delight; Nods, and wreaths, and becks, and tips; Meaning winks, and roguish trips ;

Fond deceits, and kind surprises ;
Sudden sinks, and sudden rises ;
Laughs, and toys, and gamesome fights ;
Jolly dance, and girds, and flights:
Then, to make me wholly bless'd,
Let me be there a welcome guest.




O ROSY health, heart-easy maid,
In garments light thy limbs array'd,
In smiles thy jocund features dress’d,
Of Heaven's best blessings thou the best;
Bright goddess, ever fair and young,
To thee my votive lays belong !
For thou hast fill'd each languid vein
With vigour, life, and strength again,
When pale, enervate, wan, and weak,
Despair and sickness seized my cheek.

0, could my voice such numbers raise,
Thee and thy healing founts to praise,
As might with themes so high agree,
Praise worthy them and worthy thee!
O nymph, admit me of thy train,
With thee to range the breezy plain;
And fresh and strong my limbs to lave
Beneath thy nerve-restoring wave.
With thee to rouse the slumbering morn
With opening hound and cheering horn,
With shouts that shake each wood and hill,
While mocking Echo takes her fill.

O lover of the daisied lawn! 'Tis thine, at earliest peep of dawn, The ranging forester to greet; Or the blithe lass, whose tripping feet, All as she sings beneath the pail, Imprint long traces o'er the vale. Nor seekest thou the proud resorts Of cities and licentious courts, Where Sloth and Gluttony abide, With bloated Surfeit by their side; But humbly scornest not to dwell With Temperance in the rural cell; To watch the sheepboy at his stand, Or ploughman on the furrow'd land. These climates cold, these barren plains, Where rude uncultured Nature reigns, Better thy hardy manners please Than bowers of Luxury and Ease. And oft you trip these hills among With Exercise, a sportsman young, Who, starting at the call of day, Cuffs drowsy Indolence away, And climbs with many a sturdy stride The mossy mountain's quivering side; Nor fleeting mist nor sullen storm Nor blast nor whirlwind can deform The careless scene when thou art there With Cheerfulness, thy daughter fair. From thee, bright Health, all blessings spring! Hither thy blooming children bring, Light-hearted Mirth and Sport and Joy And young-eyed Love, thy darling boy. 'Tis thou hast pour’d o’er Beauty's face Its artless bloom, its native grace;

Thou on my Laura's cheek hast spread
The peach's blush, the rose's red;
With quickening life thy touch supplies
The polish'd lustre of her eyes :
0, ever make thy dwelling there,
And guard from harm my favourite fair!
0, let no blighting grief come nigh;
And chase away each hurtful sigh,
Disease, with sickly yellow spread,
And Pain that holds the drooping head!
There, as her beauties you defend,
Oft may her eye in kindness bend
(So doubly bounteous wilt thou prove)
On me who live but in her love.



COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be,

That boasts to love as well as me;
And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound,

Come hither and thy flame approve;

I'll teach thee what it is to love, And by what marks true passion may be found.

It is to be all bathed in tears;

To live upon a smile for years ;
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;

To kneel, to languish, and implore;

And still, though she disdain, adore:
It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes
With eager joy and fond surprise ;

Yet temper'd with such chaste and awful fear

As wretches feel who wait their doom;

Nor must one ruder thought presume, Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, though hope were lost;

Though heaven and earth thy passion cross’d, Though she were bright as sainted queens above,

And thou the least and meanest swain

That folds his flocks upon the plain, Yet if thou darest not hope thou dost not love.

It is to quench thy joy in tears;

To nurse strange doubts and causeless fears : If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved,

Though she were fonder and more true

Than any nymph old poets drew,
Oh, never dream again that thou hast loved.

If, when the darling maid is gone,

Thou dost not seek to be alone,
Wrapp'd in a pleasing trance of tender woe,

And muse and fold thy languid arms,

Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou dost not love, for love is nourish'd so.

If any hopes thy bosom share

But those which love has planted there, Or any cares but his thy breast enthrall,

Thou never yet his power hast known;

Love sits on a despotic throne,
And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art so lost a thing,
Here all thy tender sorrows bring,

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