B

OAST not, miftaken fwain, thy art
To please my partial eyes;

The charms that have fubdued my heart
Another may defpife.

Thy face is to my humour made,

Another it may fright;

Perhaps by fome fond whim betray'd

In oddness I delight.

Vain youth, to your confufion know "Tis to my love's excess

You all fancied beauties owe,

your

Which fade as that grows lefs.

For your own fake, if not for mine,

You should preferve my fire,

Since you, my fwain, no more will shine,

When 1 no more admire.

By

By me indeed you are allow'd
The wonder of your kind;

But be not of my judgment proud
Whom love has render'd blind.

PHILLIPS.

M

Y love was fickle once and changing,
Nor e'er would fettle in my heart,

From beauty fill to beauty ranging,
In every face I found a dart.

"Twas first a charming fhape enflav'd me,
An eye then gave the fatal ftroke;
Till by her wit CORINNA fav'd me,
And all my former fetters broke.

But now a long and lafting anguish
For BELVIDERA I endure;
Hourly I figh, and hourly languish,
Nor hope to find the wonted cure.

For here the falfe inconftant lover

After a thoufand beauties fhown, Does new furprising charms discover, And finds variety in one.

OT, CELIA, that I jufter am,

NOT

Or truer than the reft;

For I would change each hour like them,

Were it my interest.

But I'm fo fix'd alone to thee

By every thought I have,

That should you now my heart set free 'Twould be again your flave.

All that in woman is ador'd

In thy dear felf I find;

For the whole fex can but afford

The handfome, and the kind.

Not

Not to my virtue, but thy power
This conftancy is due,

When change itself can give no more
'Tis easy to be true.

I

Tis not, CELIA, in our power

To fay how long our love will last ;
It may be we within this hour
May lofe the joys we now do taste :
The bleffed that immortal be
From change of love are only free.

Then fince we mortal lovers are, Afk not how long our love will last ; But while it does, let us take care Each minute be with pleasure past: Were it not madness to deny

To live, becaufe we're fure to die?

ETHERIDGE.

SAY,

AY, MYRA, why is gentle love
A ftranger to that mind,

Which pity and esteem can move;
Which can be just and kind ?

Is it because you fear to share
The ills that love moleft;

The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the am'rous breaft?

Alas! by fome degree of woe

We every blifs must gain:

The heart can ne'er a tranfport know,

That never feels a pain.

LYTTELTON.