And yet this world, as old as 'tis,

Is oft deceiv'd by 't too :
Kind combinations seldom miss ;

Let's try what we can do.


love me,

Get you gone-you will undo me If you

don't Let that inclination perish, Which I dare no longer cherish!

pursue me!

With harmless thoughts I did begin,
But in the crowd love enter'd in;
I knew him not, he was so gay,
So innocent, and full of play.

At every hour, in every place,
I either saw, or form’d your

face: All that in plays was finely writ, Fancy for you and me did fit.

My dreams at night were all of you,
Such as, till then, I never knew.
I sported thus with young desire,
Never intending to go higher.

But now his teeth and claws are grown,
Let me the fatal lion shun;
You found me harmless-leave me so !
For, were I not, you'd leave me too.


Love still has something of the sea,

From whence his mother rose : No time his slaves from doubt can free,

Nor give their thoughts repose.

They are becalm’d in clearest days,

Aud in rough weather tost, They wither under cold delays,

Or are in tempests lost.

One while they seem to touch the port,

Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport,

The vessel drives again,

At first disdain and pride they fear,

Which if they chance to 'scape,

Rivals and falsehood soon appear,

In a more dreadful shape.

By such degrees to joys they come,

And are so long withstood, So slowly they receive the sum,

It hardly does them good,

"Tis cruel to prolong a pain;

And to defer a joy,
Believe me, gentle Celemene,

Offends the winged boy.


An hundred thousand oaths

your Perhaps would not remove; And, if I gaz'd a thousand years,

I could no deeper love.


Fair Amynta, art thou mad,

To let the world in me Envy joys I never had,

And censure them in thee?

Filld with grief for what is past,

Let us at length be wise;
And to love's true enjoyments haste,

Since we have paid the price.

Love does easy souls despise

Who lose themselves for toys, And escape for those devise

Who taste his utmost joys.

Love should like the year be crown'd

With sweet variety;
Hope should in the spring abound,

Kind fears, and jealousy.

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In the summer, flowers should rise,

And in the autumn, fruit; His spring doth else but mock our eyes,

And in a scoff salute,


THANKS, fair Urania, to your scorn,
I now am free, as I was born.
Of all the pain that I endur'd.
By your late coldness I am cur'd.

In losing me, proud nymph, you lose
The humblest slave your beauty knows:
In losing you, I but throw down
A haughty tyrant from her throne.

My ranging love did never find
Such charms of person and of mind;
You've beauty, wit, and all things know,--
But where

love bestow.

should your

I, unawares, my freedom gave,
And to those tyrants grew a slave :
Would you have kept what you had won,
You should have more compassion shewn.

Love is a burthen, which two hearts,
When equally they bear their parts,
With pleasure carry; but no one,
Alas! can bear it long alone.

I'm not of those who court their pain,
And make an idol of disdain ;
My hope in love does ne'er expire,
But it extinguishes desire.

Nor yet of those who, ill receiv'd,
Would have it otherwise believ'd ;

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