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From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze.
Whence comes my woe, as freely own:
Ah me! 't was from a heart like stone.

The blushing cheek speaks modest miod ;
The lips befitting words most kind;
The eye doth tempt to love's desire,
And seems to say, 'Tis Cupid's fire :
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Since nought doth say the heart of stone.

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak
Sweet lip, sweet eye, sweet blushing cheek,
Yet not a heart to save my pain ?
O Venus ! take thy gifts again :
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.



* This piece, the product of the age of Elizabeth or James I, has undergone no other alteration in reprinting, than putting it into modern spelling. It is a specimen of the elegant simplicity which characterized that age of English poetry, and which was nearly lost in the succeeding age.

The Graces and the wandering Loves

Are fled to distant plains,
To chase the fawns, or in deep-groves

To wound admiring swains.
With their bright mistress there they stray,

Who turns her careless eyes
From daily triumphs; yet, each day,
Beholds new triumphs in her way,

And conquers while she flies.

But see! implored by moving prayers,

To change the lover's pain,
Venus her harness'd doves prepares,

And brings the fair again.
Proud mortals, who this maid pursue,

Think you, she 'll e'er resigo ?
Cease, fools, your wishes to renew
Till she grows flesh and blood, like you;

Or you, like her, divine.


Round Love's elysian bowers

The softest prospects rise ;
There bloom the sweetest flowers,

There shine the purest skies;
And joy and rapture gild awhile
The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile.

Round Love's deserted bowers

Tremendous rocks arise ;
Cold mildews blight the flowers,

Tornadoes rend the skies ;
And Pleasure’s waning moon goes down
Amid the night of Beauty's frown.

Then, youth, thou fond believer,

The wily Syren shun;
Who trusts the dear deceiver

Will surely be undone :
When Beauty triumphs, ah ! beware :
Her smile is hope her frown despair.


Child, with many a childish wile,
Timid look, and blushing smile,
Downy wings to steal thy way,
Gilded bow, and quiver gay,
Who in thy simple mien would trace
The tyrant of the human race?

Who is he whose flinty heart
Hath not felt the flying dart?
Who is he that from the wound
Hath not pain and pleasure found ?
Who is he that hath not shed
Curse and blessing on thy head ? *


* In the tragedy of " Basil.”


GENTLE air, thou breath of lovers,

Vapour from a secret fire, Which by thee itself discovers,

Ere yet daring to aspire:

Softest note of whisper'd anguish,

Harmony's refined part, Striking, while thou seem'st to languish, Full upon

the list'ner's heart :

Safest messenger of passion,

Stealing thro' a cloud of spies, Which constrain the outward fashion,

Close the lips, and guard the eyes :

Shapeless sigh, we ne'er can show thee,

Form'd but to assault the ear;
Yet ere to their cost they know thee,

Every nymph may read thee here.

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