Ah! Colin, whether on the lowly plain,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays,
Or whether singing in some lofty vein
Heroick deeds of past or present days,
Or whether in thy lovely mistress' praise
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill,

Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please,
With rare invention, beautified by skill,

As who therein can everjoy their fill!

VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. BELL, BOOKSELLER TO HIS

ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

1788.

AMORETTI:

OR, SONNETS.

G. W. SEN. TO THE AUTHOR.

DARK is the day when Phabus' face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soon astray,
But when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way;
So while this Muse in foreign land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside,

The time, like night, depriv'd of cheerful day,
And few do write, but, ah! too soon may slide.
Then hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours' antient pride,
That do for poesie challenge chiefest name:
So we that live, and ages that succeed,

With great applause thy learned Works shall read.

Volume VIII.

B

G. W. JUN. TO THE AUTHOR.

AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plain,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays,
Or whether singing in some lofty vein
Heroic deeds of past or present days,
Or whether in thy lovely mistress' praise
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill,
Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please,
With rare invention, beautified by skill,
As who therein can ever joy their fill!*
O therefore let that happy Muse proceed
To clime the height of Vertue's sacred hill!
Where endless honour shall be made thy meed;
Because no malice of succeeding days
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.

SONNET I.

HAPPY, ye Leaves! whenas those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in Love's soft bands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
And happy Lines! on which with starry light
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying spright,
Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.
And happy Rimes! bath'd in the sacred brook
Of Helicon, whence she derived is,

When ye behold that angel's blessed look,
My soul's long-lacked food, my heaven's bliss,
Leaves, Lines, and Rimes, seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
SONNET II.

UNQUIET thought, whom at the first I bred
Of th' inward bale of my love pined-heart,
And sithence have with sighs and sorrow fed,
Till greater than my womb thou woxen art,
Break forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest like to vipers' brood,
And seek some succour, both to ease my smart,
And also to sustain thy self with food:
But if in presence of that fairest proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet,
And with meek humbless and afflicted mood
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, entreat;
Which if she grant, then live, and my love cherish;
If not, die soon, and I with thee will perish.