That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse ; and worst

Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;

And, while ye may, go marry:
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

HERRICK.

SONG. WHEN Fanny, blooming fair,

First caught my ravish'd sight, Struck with her shape and air,

I felt a strange delight: Whilst eagerly I gazed,

Admiring every part, And every feature praised,

She stole into my heart. In her bewitching eyes

Ten thousand loves appear; There Cupid basking lies,

His shafts are hoarded there : Her blooming cheeks are dyed

With colour all their own,
Excelling far the pride

Of roses newly blown.
Her well turn'd limbs confess

The lucky hand of Jove ;
Her features all express

The beauteous queen of love ;

What flames my nerves invade

When I behold the breast Of that too charming maid

Rise, suing to be press'd!

Venus round Fanny's waist

Has her own Cestus bound, With guardian Cupids graced,

Who dance the circle round.
How happy must he be

Who shall her zone unloose !
That bliss to all but me
May heaven and she refuse.

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,

TO DELIA.

DRIED be that tear, my gentlest love,

Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Not Season's day nor Fate shall prove

More fix’d, more true than I !
Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.

Dost ask how long my vows shall stay

When all that's new is pass'd?
How long, my Delia ? can I say

How long my life will last ?
Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.

And does that thought affect thee too,

The thought of Sylvio’s death, That he who only breathes for you

Must yield that faithful breath? Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven here.

SHERIDAN.

SONG.

IN

6
THE STRANGER.'

I HAVE a silent sorrow here,

A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,

But it consumes my heart!

This cherish'd woe,

this loved despair, My lot for ever be ; So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear

Be never known by thee!

And when pale characters of death

Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
When my poor wasted, trembling breath

My life's last hope would speak

I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,

Nor mercy ask for me;
My soul despairs to be forgiven,

Unpardon'd, love, by thee.

SHERIDAN.

IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL. Yes, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid

Whom in days of my childhood I knew; All night she would weep in the cold willow shade,

And her tears mingle warm with the dew! I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclined

'Mid the willows all dripping and chill, I have heard her exclaim while she shrunk in

In pity, fond bosom, lie still!' [the wind, The youth whom she loved had been torn from

By a fate too severely unkind, [her arms Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms,

And clouded the beams of her mind! Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine,

And I feel in my heart that they will ; Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine, ' In pity, fond bosom, lie still !'

T. MOORE.

TO HENRY. WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,

[flow, High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you,

Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no! I own it would please me, at home would you

Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go;[tarry, But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry, hall blame your departure? Oh! no, my

love, no!

VOL. III.

L L

Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are

straying, That heart which is mine on a rival bestow; Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betray. ing,

[no! Do you think I suspect you? Oh! no, my love, I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me,

Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe; Yet should you dishonour my truth and deceive me,

[love, no! Should I e'er cease to love you? Oh! no, my

M, G. LEWIS,

SONG.
I DANCED with Harriet at the fair,
And praised her for her jetty hair,
Which, like the tendrils of a vine,
About her brow in wanton twine

Luxuriantly ran;
But why I praised her, sweet one, know,
Because I recollected, so
The tresses negligently flow

About the cheeks of Anne.
One evening in the passion week,
When Lucy play'd at hide and seek,
Her black eyes shone like glowworms bright,
And led me by their sparkling light

To find out where she ran;
But if I praised them, sweet one, know,
I recollected, even so
The black eyes sparkle, burn, and glow

Of gentle mistress Anne.