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Èque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.

Secundus, Eleg. vii.
STILL question I must party,

Still a wayward truant prove :
Where I love, I must not marry,

Where I marry, cannot love.

Were she fairest of creation,

With the least presuming mind ; Learned without affectation;

Not deceitful, yet refined ;

Wise enough, but never rigid ;

Gay, but not too lightly free; Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid;

Warm, yet satisfied with me :

Were she all this, ten times over,

All that Heaven to earth allows, I should be too much her lover

Ever to become her spouse.

Love will never bear enslaving;

Summer garments suit him best : Bliss itself is not worth having,

If we're by compulsion blest.


FRIEND of my soul ! this goblet sip,

'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam,

'Twill steal away thy mind; But, like affection's dream,

It leaves no sting behind !

Come, twine the wreath thy brows to shade;

Tbese flowers were culled at noon ;-
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But ah ! not half so soon !
For though the flower's decayed,

Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betrayed,

The heart can bloom no more!


In lacrymas verterat omne merum.

Tib. lib. i. eleg. 5.
PRESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower ;
And while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think-in woe the clusters weep.
Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine !
Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine.
Weep on ; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe !


Thou hast sent me a flowery band,

And told me 'twas fresh from the field; That the leaves were untouched by the hand,

And the purest of odours would yield.

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ;

But, if it were handled by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air,

And would surely be sweeter to me!

Then take it, and let it entwine

Thy tresses, so flowing and bright; And each little floweret will shine

More rich than a gem to my sight.

Let the odorous gale of thy breath

Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be withered to death

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye.

And instead of the dew that it bears,

The dew dropping fresh from the tree, On its leaves let me number the tears

That affection has stolen from thee!


PHILLIS, you little rosy rake,

That heart of yours I long to rife: Come, give it me, and do not mike

So much ado about a triste



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I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,

And in thy breath his pinion dips,
Who suns him in thy lucent eyes,

And faints upon thy sighing lips :
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleep

That used to shade thy looks of light;
And why those eyes their vigil keep,

When other suns are sunk in night.
And I will say–her angel breast

Has never throbbed with guilty sting ;
Her bosom is the sweetest nest

Where Slumber could repose his wing !
And I will say-her cheeks of flame,

Which glow like roses in the sun,
Have never felt a blush of shame,

Except for what her eyes have done!
Then tell me why, thou child of air !

Does Slumber from her eyelids rove ?
What is her heart's impassioned care ?-

Perhaps, ob sylph ! perhaps 'tis love!

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But if your heart be not so free,

Oh ! if another share that heart,
Tell not the damning tale to me,

But mingle mercy with your art.
I'd rather think you black as hell,

Than find you to be all divine,
And know that heart could love so well,

Yet know that heart would not be mine!



WHEN Time was entwining the garland of years,

Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the lenves might be sullied with tears,

Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven !
And long may this garland be sweet to the eye,

May its verdure for ever be new !
Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh,

And pity shall nurse it with dew!

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CHLORIS, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more. -
• What ! love no more ? Oh! why this altered vow ?
Because I cannot love thee more-than now !



Mon âme sur ma lèvre était lors toute entière,
Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre était;
Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'arrétoit !-- Poit.

How heavenly was the poet's doom,

To breathe his spirit through a kiss ;
And lose within so sweet a tomb

The trembling messenger of bliss !

And, ah ! his soul returned to feel

That it again could ravished be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,

His life and soul have fled to thee!


SWEET spirit ! if thy airy sleep

Nor sees my tears, nor hears my sighs,
Oh! I will weep, in luxury weep,

Till the last heart's-drop fills mine eyes
But if thy sainted soul can feel,

And mingles in our misery,
Then, then, my breaking heart I'll seal-

Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me!

The beam of morn was on the stream,

But sullen clouds the day deform,
Thou wert, indeed, that morning beam,

And death, alas ! that sullen storm.

Thou wert not formed for living here,

For thou wert kindred with the sky;
Yet, yet we held thee all so dear,

We thought thou wert not formed to die !

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