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Their colours and their sash he wore,

And in the fatal dress was found : And now he must that death endure

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale or yet so chill appear.
With falt'ring voice she, weeping, said,

• O Dawson, monarch of my heart; • Think not thy death shall eud our loves,

• For thou and I will never part. • Yet might sweet mercy find a place,

* And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, O George, without a pray'r for thee

• My orisons should nerer close. The gracious prince that gave him life

• Would crown a never-dying flame, And ev'ry tender babe I bore

• Should learn to lisp the giver's name. • But tho' he should be dragg'd in scorn

• To yonder ignominious tree, He shall not want one constant friend

• To share the cruel fate's decree.' O then her mourning coach was call’d;

The sledge mov'd slowly on before ; Tho' borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.
She follow'd him, prepar'd to view

The terrible behests of law,
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes

With calm and stedfast eye she saw.
Distorted was that blooming face

Which she had fondly lov'd so long, And stified was that tuneful breath

Which in her praise had sweetly sung,

And sever'd was that beauteous neck,

Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; And mangled was that beauteous breast,

On which her love-sick head repos'd. And ravish'd was that constant heart

She did to ev'ry heart prefer; For tho' it could its king forget,

'Twas true and loyal still to her. Amid those unrelenting flames

She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust,

Yet, yet, (she cry'd,) I follow thee. . My death, my death alone, can shew

"The pure, the lasting love I bore: • Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours,

• And let us, let us weep no more ! The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head,

And, sighing forth his name, expir'd. Tho' justice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due; For seldom shall we hear a tale

So sad, so tender, yet so true.

SONG.
FLAVIA.

I told my nymph, I told her true,

My fields were small, my flocks were few; While falt'ring accents spoke my fear, That Flavia might not prove sincere. Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold, And vagrant sheep that left my fold : Of these she heard, yet bore to hear; And is not Flavia then sincere?

How chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I lov'd became unkind:
She heard and shed a gen'rous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?
How, if she deign'd my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress :
This too she heard and smil'd to hear;
And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.
Go shear you flocks, ye jovial swains !
Go reap the plenty of your plains :
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
I know my Flavia's love sincere.

GILBERT COOPER.

SONG. AW

WAY! let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifreda, move thy fear;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy care.
What tho' no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honours,

And to be noble, we'll be good.
What tho' from fortune's lavish bounty

No mighty treasures we possess,
We'll find within our pittance plenty,

And be content without excess.
Still shall each kind returning season

Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,

Shall sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke,
And all the great ones much shall wonder

How they admire such little folk. Thro' youth and age, in love excelling,

We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,

And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures,

Whilst round my knees they fondly clung, To see them look their mother's features,

To hear 'em lisp their mother's tongue ! And when with envy time transported

Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted,

And I'll go wooing in my boys.

LORD LYTTELTON.

ADVICE TO A LADY. 1731.
THE counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,

Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere;
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends :
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays :
Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amus'd,
When most you tyrannize, you're most abus'd.

What is your sex's earliest, latest care,
Your heart's supreme ambition ?-To be fair.
For this, the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule:
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heav'n!
How few with all their pride of form can move !
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.

Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense ;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain:

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