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'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no graces revel;
Have rather been uncivil.
* Tis not her air, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common,
Like any other woman.
'Twas both perhaps, or neither ;
Of Celia altogether.
(William Whitehead succeeded Colley Cibber as Poet Laureat. His poems, and his name are now sinking into obscurity.]
Born 1709-Died 1784.
Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,
Not all the gems on India's shore,
Born 1714-Died 1763.
I told my nymph, I told her true,
How if she deigned my love to bless,
How pleas'd within my native bowers
Ere while I pass'd the day!
Were ever flowers so gay?
And all the landscape round!
The hill with beeches crown'd! But now,
when urg'd by tender woes,
since Daphne was my Their wonted charms I see: That verdant hill and silver stream,
Divide my love and me.
THE LOVELY DELIA SMILES AGAIN,
The lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow:
vow? Love is an April's doubtful day :
Awhile we see the tempest low'r; Anon the radiant heav'n survey,
And quite forget the flitting show'r. The flowers that hung their languid head,
Are banish'd by the transient rains; The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains. The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind, In every raptur'd note, express
The joy I feel,—when thou art kind.
Born 1720-Died 1756.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ;
And melting virgins own their love.
No goblins lead their nightly crew,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
(To be sung by Guiderus and Arviragas, in Cymbeline over Fidele, whom they imagine dead. One copy of the song commences :
• To fair Pastora's grassy tomb.')