The glass, which was at Venus' shrine,
With such mysterious sorrow laid:
The garland (and you call it mine)

Which show'd how youth and beauty fade.

Ten thousand trifles light as these

Nor can my rage, nor anger move:
She should be humble, who would please;
And she must suffer, who can love.

When in my glass I chanc'd to look;
Of Venus what did I implore?
That every grace which thence I took,

Should know to charm my Damon more.

Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I,
If here or there his glances flew ?
O free for ever be his eye,

Whose heart to me is always true.

My bloom indeed, my little flower
Of beauty quickly lost its pride;
For, sever'd from its native bower,
It on thy glowing bosom died.

Yet car'd I not what might presage,

Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth; Love I esteem'd more strong than age,

And time less permanent than truth.

Why then I weep, forbear to know:
Fall uncontroll'd my tears, and free:
O Damon! 'tis the only woe

I ever yet conceal'd from thee.

The secret wound with which I bleed
Shall lie wrapt up, e'en in my
hearse;
But on my tombstone thou shalt read
My answer to thy dubious verse.

ANSWER TO CLOE JEALOUS,

IN THE SAME STYLE. THE AUTHOR SICK.

YES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,

Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have liv'd; and we must part.

While now I take my last adieu,

Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear; Lest yet my half-clos'd eye may view On earth an object worth its care.

From Jealousy's tormenting strife
For ever be thy bosom freed:
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.

Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his amorous parley move thee; Reflect one moment on his truth Who, dying thus, persists to love thee.

A BETTER ANSWER.

DEAR Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty face; Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd: Pr'y thee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says) Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keep

ing?

Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy: More ord❜nary eyes may serve people for weep

ing.

To be vex'd at a trifle or two that I writ,

[wrong:

Your judgment at once, and my passion you You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:

Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art: I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The god of us verse-men (you know child) the sun,

How after his journeys he sets up his rest: If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : No matter what beauties I saw in my way; 1 They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;

And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree: For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.

PALLAS AND VENUS. AN EPIGRAM.

THE Trojan swain had judg'd the great dispute, And beauty's power obtain'd the golden fruit; When Venus, loose in all her naked charms, Met Jove's great daughter clad in shining arms. The wanton goddess view'd the warlike maid From head to foot, and tauntingly she said:

1 My heart with her but, as guest-wise, sojourn'd; And now to Helen it is home return'd,

There to remain.

Midsummer Night's Dream, A. iii. S. 2.

Yield, sister; rival, yield: naked, you see,
I vanquish guess how potent I should be,
If to the field I came in armour drest;

[crest!

Dreadful, like thine, my shield, and terrible my
The warrior goddess with disdain replied:
Thy folly, child, is equal to thy pride:
Let a brave enemy for once advise,

And Venus (if 'tis possible) be wise.
Thou to be strong must put off every dress;
Thy only armour is thy nakedness:

And more than once, (or thou art much belied)
By Mars himself that armour has been tried.

TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN IN LOVE.

A TALE.

FROM public noise and factious strife,
From all the busy ills of life,

and he

Take me, my Celia, to thy breast,
And lull my wearied soul to rest.
For ever, in this humble cell,
Let thee and I, my fair one, dwell;
None enter else, but Love
Shall bar the door, and keep the key.
To painted roofs, and shining spires
(Uneasy seats of high desires)
Let the unthinking many crowd,
That dare be covetous and proud: