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THE SPRING.

THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you :

I saw a rose-bud ope this morn-I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.

How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.

Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made,

As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is 't possible they should not know
What loss of honour they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain ?

Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.

In ancient times, sure, they much wiser were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun-
They call'd their wondering roots away,
And bade them silent to him run.

How would those learned trees have follow'd you! You would have drawn them and their peet too.

But who can blame them now? for, since you
gone,

They're here the only fair, and shine alone;
You did their natural rights invade;
Wherever you did walk or sit,

The thickest boughs could make no shade,
Although the sun had granted it:

're

The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.

Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are :

"T is you the best of seasons with you bring;
This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.

1

WRITTEN IN JUICE OF LEMON.

WHILST what I write I do not see,

I dare thus, ev'n to you, write poetry,
Ah, foolish Muse! which dost so high aspire,
And know'st her judgment well,

How much it does thy power excel,
Yet dar'st be read by, thy just doom, the fire.

Alas! thou think'st thyself secure,
Because thy form is innocent and pure:
Like hypocrites, which seem unspotted here;
But, when they sadly come to die,

And the last fire their truth must try,
Scrawl'd o'er like thee, and blotted, they appear.

Go then, but reverently go,

And, since thou needs must sin, confess it too: Confess 't, and with humility clothe thy shame; For thou, who else must burned be An heretick, if she pardon thee, Mayst like a martyr then enjoy the flame.

But, if her wisdom grow severe,

And suffer not her goodness to be there;
If her large mercies cruelly' it restrain;
Be not discourag'd, but require

A more gentle ordeal fire,

And bid her by Love's flames read it again.

Strange power of heat! thou yet dost show
Like winter-earth, naked or cloth'd with snow :
But as, the quickening sun approaching near,
The plants arise up by degrees;

A sudden paint adorns the trees,
And all kind Nature's characters appear.

So, nothing yet in thee is seen;.

But, when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows; Here buds an A, and there a B, Here sprouts a V, and there a T,

And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.

Still, silly paper! thou wilt think

That all this might as well be writ with ink: Oh, no; there's sense in this, and mysteryThou now mayst change thy author's name, And to her hand lay noble claim;

For, as she reads, she makes, the words in thee.

Yet if thine own unworthiness

Will still that thou art mine, not hers confessConsume thyself with fire before her eyes, And so her grace or pity move:

The gods, though beasts they do not love, Yet like them when they're burnt in sacrifice.

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INCONSTANCY.

FIVE years ago (says Story) I lov'd you,
For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, Madam! you mistake the man,
For I am not the same that I was then;
No flesh is now the same 't was then in me;
And that my mind is chang'd, yourself may see.
The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,
Were more inconstant far; for accidents

Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove,
If from one subject they t' another move;
My members then the father-members were
From whence these take their birth which now are
here.

If then this body love what th' other did,
"T were incest; which by Nature is forbid.
You might as well this day inconstant name,
Because the weather is not still the same
That it was yesterday—or blame the year,
'Cause the spring flowers, and autumn fruit, does

bear.

The world's a scene of changes; and to be
Constant, in Nature were inconstancy;

For 't were to break the laws herself has made :
Our substances themselves do fleet and fade;
The most fix'd being still does move and fly,
Swift as the wings of time 't is measur'd by.

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