CYNTHIA.

Bright Cynthia's power divinely great,
What heart is not obeying?

A thousand Cupids on her wait
And in her eyes are playing.

She seems the queen of love to reign
For she alone dispenses
Such sweets, as best can entertain
The guest of all the senses.

Her face a charming prospect brings;
Her breath gives balmy blisses :

I hear an angel when she sings,
And taste of Heaven in kisses.

Four senses thus she feasts with joy,
From Nature's richest treasure:

Let me the other sense employ
And I shall die with pleasure.

[In Southerne's "Oroonoko."]

IN VAIN YOU TELL.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Born 1664-Died 1721.

In vain you tell your parting lover-
You wish fair winds may waft him over:
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows and cold disdain ?

Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose,
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my ship-wreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.

IF WINE AND MUSIC HAVE THE POWER.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

If wine and music have the power
To ease the sickness of the soul,
Let Phoebus every string explore,
And Bacchus fill the sprightly bowl:
Let them their friendly aid employ
To make my Chloe's absence light,
And seek for pleasure to destroy

The sorrows of this live long night.

But she to-morrow will return :
Venus, be thou to-morrow great;
Thy myrtles strew, thy odours burn,
And meet thy favourite nymph in state.
Kind goddess, to no other powers
Let us to-morrow's blessings own,
Thy darling Love shall guide the hours,
And all the day be thine alone.

AMYNTA,

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Let perjur'd, fair Amynta know
What for her sake I undergo;
Tell her, for her how I sustain
A lingering fever's wasting pain;
Tell her the torments I endure,
Which only, only she can cure.

But, oh! she scorns to hear or see
The wretch that lies so low as me;
Her sudden greatness turns her brain,
And Strephon hopes, alas! in vain!
For ne'er 'twas found (though often tried)
That Pity ever dwelt with Pride,

NELLY.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

Whilst others proclaim

This nymph or that swain,

Dearest Nelly, the lovely I'll sing;

She shall grace every verse,

I'll her beauties rehearse,

Which lovers can't think an ill thing.

Her eyes shine as bright

As stars in the night;

Her complexion divinely is fair;

Her lips red as a cherry,

Would a hermit make merry,

And black as a coal is her hair.

Her breath, like a rose,
Its sweets does disclose,

Whenever you ravish a kiss;

Like ivory enchased,

Her teeth are well placed;

An exquisite beauty she is.

She's blooming as May,

Brisk, lively, and gay,

The graces play all round about her;

She's prudent and witty,

Sings wondrously pretty,

And there is no living without her.

THE GARLAND.

MATTHEW PRIOR.

The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day,

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they looked more gay Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress'd at evening when she found

Their odours lost, their colours past, She changed her look and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,

My love, my life, (said I) explain

This change of humour; prythee tell,

That falling tear, what does it mean?