He haunts the stream, he haunts the
Lives in a fond romance of love,
And feems for each to die;
Till, each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Cælia's fhape ran down,
And fhe Sabina's eye.
Their envy made the shepherd find
Those eyes which love could only blind;
So fet the lover free:
No more he haunts the grove or stream,
Or with a true-love knot and name
Engraves a wounded tree.
Ah, Cælia! fly Sabina cry'd,
Though neither love, we 're both deny'd;
Now to fupport the fex's pride,
Let either fix the dart.
Poor girl, fays Cælia, fay no more; For fhould the fwain but one adore, That spite, which broke his chains before, Would break the other's heart.
LOVE AND INNOCENCE.
MY days have been fo wondrous free, The little birds, that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as blefs'd as I.
Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one figh to them?
But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of fweet defire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye fwains that haunt the grove !
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!
With all of nature, all of art,
Affift the dear defign;
O teach a young, unpractis'd heart,
To make fair Nancy mine.
The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of defpair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.
'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with foft diftrefs;
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it lefs.
HEN spring came on with fresh delight,
To cheer the foul, and charm the fight,
While easy breezes, fofter rain,
And warmer funs, falute the plain;
'T was then, in yonder piny grove, That Nature went to meet with Love.
Green was her robe, and green Where-e'er she trod, 'twas green beneath;
Where-e'er she turn'd, the pulfes beat
With new recruits of genial heat;
And in her train the birds appear,
To match for all the coming year.
Rais'd on a bank where daifies grew,
And violets intermix'd a blue,
She finds the boy she went to find;
A thousand pleasures wait behind,
Afide, a thousand arrows lie,
But all unfeather'd, wait to fly.
When they met, the dame and boy,
Dancing Graces, idle joy,
Wanton fmiles, and airy play
Confpir'd to make the scene be gay;
Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,
And Nature bid them fing to Love,
Sitting, hopping, fluttering, fing,
And pay their tribute from the wing,
To fledge the fhafts that idly lie,
And yet unfeather'd wait to fly.
'Tis thus, when spring renews the blood,
They meet in every trembling wood,
And thrice they make the plumes agree,
And every dart they mount with three,
And every dart can boast a kind,
Which fuits each proper turn of mind.
From the towering eagle's plume
Shot by the peacock's painted eye,
The vain and airy lovers die :
For careful dames and frugal men,
The shafts are fpeckled by the hen.
When prattling wins the panting hearts ;
When from the voice the paffions spring,
The warbling finch affords a wing:
Together, by the sparrow stung,
Down fall the wanton and the young:
And fledg'd by geefe the weapons fly,
When others love they know not why.
All this (as late I chanc'd to rove)
I learn'd in yonder waving grove,
And fee, fays Love, who call'd me near,
How much I deal with Nature here;
How both fupport a proper part,
She gives the feather, I the dart :
Then cease for fouls averse to sigh,
If Nature cross you, so do I;
My weapon there unfeather'd flies,
And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
But if the mutual charms I find
By which the links you mind to mind,
They wing my fhafts, I poize the darts,
And strike from both, through both hearts.
ANACRE ON TIC.
GAY Bacchus, liking Eftcourt's wine,
A noble meal bespoke us;
And for the guests that were to dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.
The God near Cupid drew his chair,
Near Comus, Jocus plac'd;
For wine makes Love forget its care,
And mirth exalts a feast.
The more to please the sprightly God,
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on fome cloaths to come abroad,
And took a waiter's place.
Then Cupid nam'd at every glass
A lady of the sky;
While Bacchus fwore he'd drink the lass, And had it bumper-high.
Fat Comus toft his brimmers o'er,
And always got the most ;
Jocus took care to fill him more,
Whene'er he mifs'd the toast.
They call'd, and drank at every touch;
He fill'd and drank again;
And if the Gods can take too much, 'Tis faid, they did fo then.
* A celebrated comedian and tavern-keeper.
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