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VOL. I.

All the nymphs were in white,
And the shepherds in green,
The garland was given,

And Phillis was queen.
But Phillis refused it,
And sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland,
While Pan is away.

While Pan and fair Syrinx
Are fled from the shore,
The graces are banish'd,
And love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure
That warm'd our desires,

Has broken his bow,

And extinguish'd his fires
And vows that himself

And his mother will mourn,

Till Pan and fair Syrinx
In triumph return.

Forbear your addresses,

And court us no more;

For we will perform

What the deity swore :
But if you dare think

Of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep-hooks,

And take to your arms:
Then laurels and myrtles
Your brows shall adorn,
When Pan and fair Syrinx
In triumph return.

OH! FORBEAR TO BID ME SLIGHT HER.

AARON HILL.

Born 1685-Died 1750.

Oh! forbear to bid me slight her,
Soul and senses take her part;
Could my death itself delight her,

Life should leap to leave my heart.

Strong, though soft, a lover's chain,
Charm'd with woe, and pleased with pain.

Though the tender flame were dying,
Love would light it at her eyes;
Or, her tuneful voice applying,
Through my ear my soul surprise.

Deaf, I see the fate I shun;
Blind, I hear and am undone.

LOTHARIA.

AARON HILL.

Vainly now ye strive to charm me,
All ye sweets of blooming May;
How can empty sunshine warm me,
While Lotharia keeps away ?

Go, ye warbling birds, go leave me;
Shade, ye clouds, the smiling sky;
Sweeter notes her voice can give me,
Softer sunshine fills her eye.

AT SETTING DAY.

AARON HILL.

Since sounding drums, and rising war,
Invite my love to danger,

I'll ask of every smiling star,

To shield my roving ranger.

While o'er the field, unfearing wounds,
You press the foe, retreating,
I'll trace the dear remember'd bounds,
Of our more gentle meeting.

I'll pass whole days in yon sweet grove, Where first thy tongue deceiv'd me, When, listening dumb, I blush'd my love, And no fear'd absence griev'd me.

On every bank thy side hath press'd,
I'll sleep and dream I'm near thee;

And each sweet bird that strains his breast,
Shall wake my hopes to hear ye.

To all our haunts I will repair,

And, cold, on yon bleak mountain, Trace all thy once trod footsteps there, And weep o'er each sad fountain.

There will I teach the trees to wear
Thy name, in soft impression;
And borrow sighs from roving air,
To swell my soul's confession.

THE CONQUEST.

WILLIAM THOMPSON.

When Phoebus heard Ianthe sing,
And sweetly bid the groves rejoice,
Jealous, he smote the trembling string,
Despairing quite to match her voice.

Smiling, her harpsichord she strung:
As soon as she began to play,
Away his harp poor Phoebus flung;
It was no time for him to stay.

Yet hold; before your godship go,

The fair shall gain another prize :
Your voice and lyre's outdone you know;
No less thy sunshine by her eyes.

[Thompson is the author of "Sickness," a poem in five books, and a very beautiful "Hymn to May." He is now little read.]

DEAR COLIN PREVENT.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

Born about 1690-Died 1762.

Dear Colin prevent my warm blushes,
Since how can I speak without pain?
My eyes have oft told you my wishes,

O 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?

Did your heart feel such tortures as mine,
I need not tell over and over,

What I in my bosom confine.

["Lady M. W. Montagu, in a letter to her daughter, the Countess of Bute, states that the above poem was handed about as the supposed address of Lady Hertford to Lord William Hamilton, and that she herself wrote these verses attributed to Sir William Yonge." Park. Colin's answer has been printed as Sir William Yonge's.]

COLIN'S ANSWER.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU.

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 snatch 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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