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The wealth of Golconda could never have bought


For love, truth, and constancy still is her theme, Then give me, kind heaven, the cottager's daughter,

That dwells on the borders of Alne's winding


The hour is come when we must part,

And cold is thy farewell!
While thou, within this lonely heart,

Must ever dearly dwell.
Within the cloister's holy cell
My shame I must recal;

There oft must burning mem'iy tell

Thy triumph-and my fall.
And there I'll pour the ceaseless tear
Of penitence for sin :

And strive by one incessant prayer,
Thy soul's release to win!
Farewell the parting is now past,
I erred for thee alone:
And, oh! until it breathe its last,
This heart is all thy own.


From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested.

A sprig her fair breast to adorn ;

No, by heavens! I exclined, may I perish, if ever I plant in thy bosom a thoru.

Then I shew'd her a ring, and implor'd her to


She blush'd like the dawning of morn;

Yes, I'll consent, she replied, if you'll promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. No, by heavens! I exclaimed, may I perish, if ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.


When first I saw Flora, so sprightly and blooming,
She enamoured my fancy devoid of all art;
Then Marian, the gentle, soft, sweet, unassuming,
Appeared, and with Flora divided my heart.
My poesy of love two sweet flow'rets compose,
My Marian's my lily, and Flora's my rose.

How happy with Marian could I be united!
Yet to part with sweet Flora, ah! could I

And if with her hand my Flora requited,

The thoughts of dear Marian might banish content,

My poesy of love might wound my repose,

pine for the lily and droop for the rose.

So my mind to declare still embarrassed I tarry;
How can I ask one when enamoured of both?
Then weave me a cypress, for ne'er can I marry,
For the tongue that would falter must ne'er
take the oath.

My poesy of love can but anguish disclose,
Adieu to the lily! farewell to the rose !



When Phoebus wakes the rosy hours,

And gives the cheering day Around on all his influence pours, The huntsmen hark away.

While cheerful sounds the merry horn,

O'er every hill and dale,

The hunter's cry awakes the morn,
And echoes through the vale.

While o'er the dewy lawns they fly,
Pursuing swift their prey,
Shrill echo sweetly does reply,
As they cry hark away.

While cheerful sound, &c.

And thus from morning until night,
Well pleased they take their way;
Regaling them with great delight
The pleasures of the day.
With cheerful sound, &c.


Let others love the melting sigh,
And swear they love to madness,
To them I leave the tearful eye,
And all love's sober sadness;
No tender vows and prayers are mine,
But this I swear sincerely,

While truth and honest love are thine,
I'll love thee ever dearly.

Then, lady, though I scorn the wiles
Which love too oft discovers,

Ne'er spurn the heart that woos with smiles,
For smiles were made for lovers,
And though no tender vows are mine,
Yet this I swear sincerely,
While truth and honest love are thine,
I'll love thee ever dearly.


A Woman's love's the ruffled sea,
Her heart the rock it laves;
The shifting sands her constancy,
Her plighted vows the waves;
Her jealous doubts the raging storm;
The vessels it has wrecked,
Her lover; his once favoured form,
With ruined hopes bedecked.

A woman's reason's thistle down,
Her vanity the air,

Of words which it is wafted on,
To wander here and there;
On every idle breath it flies,

But bas not settl'd away,
And he, who on its aid relies,
Is surely led astray.

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A woman's virtue is a star
Which in a wintry night,
Shines brightly, but more coldly far,
And chilis us with its light.
Too temperate for fierce desire,
Too chaste, too cold to win,

The tempting of a fiend 'twould tire,
To heaven itself a kin.

A woman's tongue's a busy bee,
And scandal is the flower,
On which it sips industriously,
And feeds each summer bour;
Her mouth, her lovely mouth, completes
The well wrought hive and home,
The opening lips of richest sweets,
The sweetest honeycomb.

A woman's eyes, though bright and brisk
And sweet beyond compare,
Have glances like the basalisk,

And glance but to ensnare;
Then if her love's possess'd 'tis lost,

Her beauty brings but pain;
Her vanity will reason cross,
Her virtues little gain.

Yet woman, she has all that's blest,
A magic to enthral;

For nature form'd her as the best

And fairest work of all!

And oh! I will, while verse exalts

Her name, where'er she be,

Love, worship her, with all her faults,
For woman still is she.

Primroses deck the bank's green side,
Cowslips enrich the valley;

The blackbird woos his destin'd bride,
Let's range the fields, my Sally.

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