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Mankind was hers, all at her feet

Lay prostrate and adoring;
The witty, handsome, rich, and great,

In vain alike imploring.
But now grown old, she would repair

Her loss of time and pleasure,
With willing eyes and wanton air

Inviting every gazer.
But love's a summer flower, that dies

With the first weather's changing ;
The lover, like the swallow, flics

From sun to sun still ranging.

MYRA, let this example move

Your foolish heart to reason ; Youth is the proper time for love, And age retirement's season.


WHAT! put off with one denial,
And not make a second trial ?
You might see my eyes consenting,
All about me was relenting ;
Women obliged to dwell in forms
Forgive the youth that boldly storms.


Lovers, when you sigh and languish,
When you tell us of your anguish,
To the nymph you'll be more pleasing
When those sorrows you are easing :
We love to try how far men dare,
And never wish the foe should spare.

Let not Love on me bestow
Soft distress and tender, woe;
I know none but substantial blisses,
Eager glances, solid kisses.

I know not what the lovers feign
Of finer pleasure mixt with pain ;
Then pr’ythee give me, gentle boy,
None of thy grief, but all thy joy.


Wir we love, and why we hate,

Is not granted us to know;

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Random chance, sor wilful fatentry

Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

If on' me ZELINDA frown,

Madness 't is all in me to grieve; Since her will is not her own,

Why should I uneasy live?

If I for ZELINDA die,

Deaf to poor MIZELLA's cries, Ask not me the reason why;

Seek the riddle in the skies,


Dear Colin, prevent my warm blushes,

Since how can I speak without pain? My eyes have oft told you my wishes,

Oh! can't you their meaning explain?

My passion would lose by expression,

And you too might cruelly blame; Then don't you expect a confession

Of what is too tender to name.

Since yours is the province of speaking,

Why should you expect it from me? Our wishes should be in our keeping,

Till you tell us what they should be.

Then quickly why don't you discover?

heart feel such tortures as mine, Eyes need not tell over and over.

What I in my bosom confine,


Good Madam, when ladies are willing,

A man must needs look like a fool; For me, I would not give a shilling

For one that can love without rule.

At least you should wait for our offers,

Nor spatch like old maids in despair; If you've lived to these years without proffers,

Your sighs are now lost in the air.

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You should leave us to guess at your blushing,

And not speak the matter too plain ;
'Tis ours to be forward and pushing ;

yours to affect a disdain.

That you're in a terrible taking,

From all your fond oglings I see;
But the fruit that will fall without shaking

Indeed is too mellow for me. *


was new,

When first I sought fair Celia's love,

I swore by all the Gods above

To be for ever true.

* In Dodsley's Collection of Poems this piece was assigned to Sir W. Young, and the preceding to Lady M. W. Montagu. Of this misstatement the lady heavily complains in a letter to her daughter, the Countess of Bute, in which she says that the first piece being handed about as the supposed address of Lady Hertford to Lord W. Hamilton, she herself wrote the second extempore as a reply to it.


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