My passion would lose by expression,

And you too might cruelly blame;
Then don't you expect a confession,
Of what is too tender to name.

Since yours is the province of speaking,
Why should you expect it from me;
Our wishes should be in our keeping,
"Till you tell us what they should be.

Then quickly why don't you discover?

Did

your heart feel such tortures as mine, I need not tell over and over,

What I in my bosom confine.

of Bute, states that the above poem was handed about as the sup["Lady M. W. Montagu, in a letter to her daughter, the Countess posed address of Lady Hertford to Lord William Hamilton, and that she herself wrote these verses attributed to Sir William Yonge." Park. Colin's answer has been printed as Sir William Yonge's.]

COLIN'S ANSWER.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

Good Madam when ladies are willing,
A man must needs look like a fool;
For me I would not give a shilling
For one that can love without rule.

At least you should wait for our offers,
Nor snatch like old maids in despair;
If you've lived to these years without proffers
Your sighs are now lost in the air.

You should leave us to guess at your blushing, And not speak the matter too plain; 'Tis ours to be forward and pushing; 'Tis yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking

From all your fond oglings I see!
But the fruit that will fall without shaking
Indeed is too mellow for me.

AS O'ER ASTERIA'S FIELDS I ROVE.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

Born 1692-Died 1742.

As o'er Asteria's fields I rove,
The blissful seat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rise,
And mingle pleasure with surprise.
By nature blessed in every part,
Adorn'd with every grace of art,
This paradise of blooming joys
Each raptur'd sense at once employs.

But when I view the radiant queen
Who form'd this fair enchanting scene,
Pardon, ye grots! ye crystal floods!
Ye breathing flowers! ye shady woods!
Your coolness now no more invites ;
No more your murmuring stream delights;
Your sweets decay, your verdure's flown;
My soul's intent on her alone.

PARAPHRASE UPON A FRENCH SONG.

Venge moi d'une ingrate maitresse,
Dieu du Vin ! j'implore ton yvresse.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE,

Kind relief in all my pain,
Jolly Bacchus! hear my prayer,
Vengeance on th' ungrateful fair!
In thy smiling cordial bowl
Drown the sorrows of my soul:
All thy deity employ,

Gild each gloomy thought with joy.
Jolly Bacchus! save, O save,
From the deep-devouring grave,
A poor despairing dying swain.

Haste away,

Haste away,

Lash thy tigers, do not stay;
I'm undone if thou delay:

If I view those eyes once more,
Still shall love and still adore,
And be more wretched than before.
See the glory round her face!

See her move!

With what a grace!

Ye gods above!

Is she not one of your immortal race? Fly ye winged Cupids! fly;

Dart like lightning through the sky:

Would ye in marble temples dwell,
The dear one to my arms compel;
Bring her in bands of myrtle tied;
Bid her forget, and bid her hide
All her scorn and all her pride.
Would ye that your slave repay
A smoking hecatomb each day?
O restore

The beauteous goddess I adore!
O restore with all her charms,
The faithless vagrant to my arms!

THE PARTING KISS.

ROBERT DODSLEY.

Born 1703-Died 1764.

One kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear and bid adieu:
Though we sever, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for you.

Yet, yet, weep not so my love,
Let me kiss that falling tear,
Though my body must remove,
All my soul will still be here.

All my soul and all my heart,

And every wish shall pant for you;

One kind kiss then ere we part,

Drop a tear and bid adieu ?

[Dodsley was a well-known bookseller in Pall Mall, to which rank, encouraged by Pope, he rose from a gentleman's servant.]

FANNY FAIR.

To Fanny fair could I impart
The cause of all my woe!

That beauty which has won my heart,
She scarcely seems to know:
Unskill'd in art of womankind,
Without design she charms;
How can those sparkling eyes be blind,
Which every bosom warms?

She knows her power is all deceit,
The conscious blushes shows,
Those blushes to the eye more sweet
Than th' op'ning budding rose:
Yet the delicious fragrant rose,
That charms the sense so much,
Upon a thorny brier grows,

And wounds with ev'ry touch.

At first when I beheld the fair,
With raptures I was blest;

But as I would approach more near,
At once I lost my rest;

Th' inchanting sight, the sweet surprise,
Prepare me for my doom;

One cruel look from those bright eyes
Will lay me in my tomb.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany. Burns in his first letter to George Thomson, calls it insipid stuff and a disgrace to a collection of songs.' The Editor had great misgivings after such an opinion from such a man as Burns whether he should insert it--but as the poet says in his Dream:

There's mony waur been o' the race, so he thought proper here to admit it.]