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He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove, Lives in a fond romance of love,

And seems for each to die;
Till, each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Cælia's shape ran down,

And she Sabina's eye.
Their envy made the shepherd find
Those eyes which love could only blind;

So set 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 support the fex's pride,

Let either fix the dart. Poor girl, says Cælia, say no more ; For should the swain but one adore, That spite, which broke his chains before,

Would break the other's heart.



My days have been so wondrous free,

The little birds, that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,

Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ak the flying gales, if e'er

I lent one sigh to them ?
But now my former days retire,

And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire

Are fix'd upon my thought.
Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines !

Ye swains that haunt the grove !
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds !

Ye close retreats of love !
With all of nature, all of art,

Aflift the dear design;
O teach a young, unpractis'd heart,

To make fair Nancy mine.
The very thought of change I hate,

As much as of despair ;
Nor ever covet to be great,

Unless it be for her.
'Tis true, the passion in my mind

Is mix'd with soft distress;
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,

I cannot wish it less.



HEN spring came on with fresh delight,

To cheer the foul, and charm the fight, While easy breezes, softer rain, And warmer suns, salute the plain ;

'T was then, in yonder piny grove, That Nature went to meet with Love.

Green was her robe, and green her wreath,
Where-e'er she trod, 't was green beneath;
Where-e'er she turn'd, the pulses 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 daisies 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 smiles, and airy play
Conspir’d to make the scene be gay;
Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,
And Nature bid them sing to Love,
Sitting, hopping, fluttering, sing,

their tribute from the wing,
To fledge the shafts 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,

every dart they mount with three, And

every dart can boast a kind, Which suits each proper turn of mind.



From the towering eagle's plume The generous hearts


their doom ;
Shot by the peacock's painted eye,
The vain and airy lovers die :
For careful dames and frugal men,
The Shafts are speckled by the hen.

pyes and parrots deck the darts,
When prattling wins the panting hearts ;
When from the voice the paffions spring,
The warbling finch affords a wing :
Together, by the sparrow ftung,
Down fall the wanton and the young :
And fledg'd by geese 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 see, says Love, who call’d me near,
How much I deal with Nature here;
How both support a proper part,
She gives the feather, I the dart :
Then cease for fouls averse to figh,
If Nature cross you, so do I;
My weapon there unfeather'd Aies,
And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
But if the mutual charms I find
By which she links


mind to mind, They wing my shafts, I poize the darts, And strike from both, through both your hearts. ANACREONTIC.

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 some cloaths to come abroad,

And took a waiter's place.
Then Cupid nam'd at every glass

A lady of the sky;
While Bacchus swore 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 miss'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 so then.

* A celebrated comedian and tavern-keeper.

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