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LOVE FOR LOVE'S SAKE.

HARRY CAREY.

I'll range around the shady bowers,
And gather all the sweetest flowers;
I'll strip the garden and the grove,
To make a garland for my love.

When, in the sultry heat of day,
My thirsty nymph does panting lay;
I'll hasten to the river's brink,
And drain the floods but she shall drink.

At night to rest her weary head,
I'll make my love a grassy bed ;
And with green boughs, I'll form a shade,
That nothing may her rest invade.

And while dissolv’d in sleep she lies,
Myself shall never close these eyes;
But gazing still with fond delight,
I'll watch my charmer all the night.

And then as soon as cheerful day,
Dispels the darksome shades away;
Forth to the forest I'll repair,
To seek provision for my fair.

Thus will I spend the day and night-
Still mixing labour with delight;
Regarding nothing I endure,
So I can ease for her procure.

But if the nymph whom thus I love,
To her fond swain should faithless prove,
I'll seek some dismal distant shore,
And never think of woman more.

FROM THE COURT TO THE COTTAGE.

HARRY CAREY.

From the court to the cottage convey me away,
For I'm weary of grandeur, and what they call gay:

When pride without measure,

And pomp without pleasure, Make life in a circle of hurry decay. Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown ;

My friends shall be few,

But well chosen and true,
And sweet recreation our evening shall crown.
With a rural repast, (a rich banquet for me)
On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree,

The river's clear brink,

Shall afford me my drink, And temperance my friendly physician shall be. Ever calm and serene, with contentment still blest, Not too giddy with joy, or with sorrow deprest,

I'll neither invoke,

Or repine at Death's stroke,
But retire from the world as I would to my rest.

A BACCHANALIAN RANT.

HARRY CAREY.

Bacchus must now his power resign,
I am the only god of wine ;
It is not fit the wretch should be
In competition set with me,
Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine !
Stock'd with nothing else but wine !
Let wine its only product be,
Let wine be earth, and air, and sea,
And let that wine be all for me.

Let other mortals vainly wear
A tedious life in anxious care,
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let states and empires swim or sink-
My whole ambition is to drink.

HOW HARDLY I CONCEALED MY TEARS ?

ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON.

How hardly I conceal'd my tears?

How oft did I complain ?
When, many tedious days, my fears

Told me I lov'd in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,

And hard to be conceal'd;
Sorrow may make a silent inoan,

But joy will be reveal'd.
I tell it to the bleating flocks,

To every stream and tree,
And bless the hollow murmuring rocks

For echoing back to me. Thus you may see with how much joy,

We want, we wish, believe; 'Tis hard such passion to destroy,

But easy to deceive.

RIVALS, A LOVER'S PLAGUE.

WILLIAM WALSH.

Of all the torments, all the cares,

With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,

Sure rivals are the worst !
By partners in each other kind,

Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find,

Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see

Are lab'ring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,

Would you but slight the rest !

How great soe'er your rigours are,

With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,

But not another's hope.

(This song is by the Walsh so often mentioned in the correspon. dence of Pope.)

AMYNTA'S LIPS.

As near a fountain's cooling side,

The fair Amynta lay,
Her looks increas'd the summer's pride-

Her eyes the face of day.

The roses round blush'd deeper red

To see themselves outdone,
Each lily droop'd its little head-

And mourn'd its beauty gone.

Unto this fountain's soft retreat

A bee enamour'd flew
To steal Amynta's every sweet

And rifle balmy dew.

Drawn by the fragrance of her breath,

Her wanton lips he wooed,
O’ercome with bliss cold icy death,

The happy rogue pursued.

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