The joy of joys, by few poffefs'd, That friends may weep, the worthy figh; LOVE ELEGY. ΤΟ DAMON. No longer hope, fond youth, to hide thy pain *, No longer blush the fecret to impart ; Too well I know what broken murmurs mean, Nor did I learn this skill by Ovid's rule ; Believe me, Love is jealous of his power; * Non ego celari poffim, quid nutus amantis, Nec mihi funt fortes. + Define diffimulare; Deus crudelias urit, TIBUL. TIBUL. In vain, alas you feek the lonely grove, And in fad numbers to the Thames complain: The shade, with kindred softness, foothes thy love; Sad numbers foothe, but cannot cure thy pain. When Phoebus felt (as story fings) the smart, Even fhould the maid vouchafe to hear thy fong, Nor yet, proud maid, fhould'st thou refuse thine ear; Nor are the manners of the Poet rude; Nor pours he not the fympathetic tear, His heart by anguish, not his own, subdu’d. When fairest names in long Oblivion rot, (For fairest names muft yield to wafting Time). The Poet's mistress 'fcapes the common lot, And blooms uninjur'd in his living rhime. * Nec profunt Domino, quæ profunt omnibus artes. OVID IMITATION IMITATION OF THE EIGHTH ODE IN THE THIRD BOOK OF HORACE. BY MR. HARRI S. TO THE HON. THOMAS WINNINGTON, ESQ. YOU ask why bachelors take state ; Eloquent Senator, this treat Was vow'd when in wine-licence feat, This day revolving, fhall produce Old Cyprus labell'd from renown, O Winnington! now freely quaff, Forget the state and civil cares, Each German conteft banish. Spain fhall fubmit, that flow tam'd foe, Soon Ruffia's fons fhall fill the plain, Of great affairs now wash your hands, Forget for once all public cares, All precedents and order; Not e'en about elections think, Nor figh at the expence of drink, Dear glorious recorder. But tell, when first by Polly mov'd, How great your flame, how much you lov'd, many times you kifs'd her How Poor girl, deferted and forlorn! ON ON CERTAIN NEW BUILDINGS NEAR THE ROYAL EXCHANGE. WHEN Ifrael's impious fons forgot Or when they fham'd the facred ufe Built tables there, and bought and fold: To ours, theirs were but THE MIRROR OF KNIGHTHOOD. A TRUE TALE WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1734. RIBBONS and stars, and courtly toys, A dunce |