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Through moffy grotto's amaranthine bow'rs,

And form a laughing food in vale below: Where oft their limbs the loves and graces bay (When summer sheds insufferable day) [play. And sport, and dive, and flounce in wantonness of No noise o'ercomes the filence of the shades,

Save short-breath'd vows, the dear excess of joy; Or harmlefs giggle of the youths and maids,

Who yield obeisance to the Cyprian boy: Or lute, foft-fighing in the passing gale ; Or fountain, gurgling down the facred vale, Or hymn to beauty's queen, or lover's tender tale. Here Venus revels, here maintains her court,

In light feftivity and gladsome game: The young and gay, in frolic troops resort,

Withouten cenfure and withouten blame. In pleasure steep'd, and dancing in delight, Night steals upon the day, and day on night: Each knight, his lady loves; each lady, loves her

knight. Where lives the man (if such a man there be)

In idle wilderness or desert drear, To beauty's facred pow'r an enemy?

Let foul fiends harrow him ; I'll drop no tear. I deem that carl, by beauty's pow'r unmov'd, Hated of heav'n, of none but hell approv’d. 0 may

he never love, O never be belov'd! Hard is his heart, unmelted by thee, MAY!

Unconscious of love's nectar-tickling ftring, And, unrelenting, cold to beauty's ray;

Beauty the mother and the child of spring! Beauty and wit declare the sexes even; Beauty to woman, wit to man is giv’n; Neither the slime of earth, but each the fire of heav'n. Alliance sweet! let beauty, wit approve,

As flow'rs to sunshine ope the ready breast: Wit beauty loves, and nothing else can love :

The best alone is grateful to the best.

Perfection has no other parallel !
Can light with darkness, doves with ravens dwell?
Asfoonperdie, shall heav'n communion holdwith hell.
I fing to you, who love alone for love:

For gold the beauteous fools (O fools besure !) Can win; though brighter wit fhall never move :

But folly is to wit the certain cure.
Curs'd be the men (or be they young or old),
Curs'd be the women, who themselves have sold
To the detested bed for lucre base of gold.
Not Julia such: The higher honour deem'd

To languish in the Sulmo poet's arms,
Than, by the potentates of earth esteem’d,

To give to fceptres and to crowns her charms. Not Laura such: in fweet Vauclusa's vale She listen'd'to her Petrarch's amorous tale. But did poor Colin Clout o’er Rosalind prevail ? Howe'er that be; in Acidalian Shade,

Embracing Julia, Ovid melts the day:
Nor dreams of banishment his loves invade;

Encircled in eternity of MAY.
Here Petrarch with his Laura, foft reclin'd
On violets, gives forrow to the wind :
And Colin Clout pipes to the yielding Rosalind.
Pipe on, thou sweetest of th’Arcadian train,

That e'er with tuneful breath inform’d the quill: Pipe on, of lovers the most loving swain!

Of bliss and melody, O take thy fill!
Ne envy I, if dear ANTHE smile,
Though low my numbers, and though rude my style;
Ne quit for Acidale, fair Albion's happy ille.
Come then, IANTHE! milder than the spring,

And grateful as the rofy month of MAY,
O come; the birds the hymn of nature sing,

Inchanting wild, from every bush and spray:
Swell the green gems and teem along the vine,
A fragrant promise of the future wine,
The spirits to exalt, the genius to refine !

Let us our steps direct where father Thames,

In filver windings draws his humid train, And pours, where'er he rolls his naval fiream,

Pomp on the city, plenty o'er the plain.
Or by the banks of Ilis shall we stray,
(Ah! why so long from Isis' banks away!)
Where thousand damfels dance, and thousand

Thepherds play.
Or choose you rather Theron's calm retreat,

Embofom’d, Surrey, in thy verdant vale,
At once the muses and the graces seat!

There gently listen to my faithful tale. Along the dew-bright parterres let us rove, Or taste the odours of the mazy-grove: Hark how the turtles coo: I languish too with love. Amid the pleafaunce of Arcadian scenes,

Love steals his filent arrows on my breast;
Nor falls of water, nor enamell’d greens,

Can footh my anguilh, or invite to reft.
You, dear IANTHE, you alone impart
Balm to my wounds, and cordial to my sinart :
The apple of my eye, the life-blood of


heart. With line of filk, with hook of barbed steel,

Beneath this oaken umbrage let us lay, And from the water's cryftal bosom steal

Upon the grassy bank the finny prey: The perch, with purple-speckled manifold; The eel, in silver labyrinth felt roll’d, And carp, all-burniih'd o'er with drops of fcaly

gold. Or shall the meads invite, with Iris' hues

And nature's pencil gay diversify’d, (For now the sun has lick'd away the dews)

Fair flushing and bedeck'd like virgin bride Thither (for they invite us), we'll repair, Collect and weave (whate'er is sweet and fair) A posy for thy brealt, a garland for thy hair.


Fair is the lily, clad in balmy snow;

Sweet is the rose, of spring the smiling eye; Nipt by the winds, their heads the lilies bow;

Cropt by the hand, the roses fade and die. Though now in pride of youth and beauty drest, O think, IANTHE, cruel time lays wafte The roses of the cheek, the lilies of the breast. Weep not; but, rather taught by this, improve

The present freshness of thy springing prime: Bestow thy graces on the god of love,

Too precious for the wither'd arms of time. In chafte endearments, innocently gay, IANTHE! now,—now love thy spring away; Ere cold October blasts despois the bloom of May. Now up the chalky mazes of yon hill,

With grateful diligence, we wind our way, What op'ning scenes our ravish'd senses fill,

And, wide, their rural luxury display!
Woods, dales, and flocks, and herds, and cots, and

Villa’s of learned clerks, and gentle squires ;
The villa of a friend the eye-light never tires.
If e'er to thee and Venus, MAY, I ftrung

The gladsome lyre, when livelood swellid my veins And Eden's nymphs and Ilis' damsels sung

In tender elegy, and pastoral strains ; Collect and shed thyself

on Theron's bow'rs, O green his gardens, O perfume his flow'rs, Obless his morning walks and footh his ev’ning hours. Long, Theron, with thy Annabell enjoy

The walks of nature, still to virtue kind, For sacred solitude can never cloy

The wisdom of an uncorrupted mind! O very long may Hymen's golden chain To earth confine you and the rural reign ; Then soar, at length, to Heaven! nor pray, O muse, Where'er the muses haunt, or poets muse,

in vain.

In folitary filence sweetly tir’d,
Unloose thy bosom, MAY ! thy flores effuse,

Thy vernal stores, by poets most defir'd,
Of living fountain, of the woodbind shade,
Of Philomela, warbling from the glade.
Thy bounty, in his verie, shall ceries be repaid.
On Twit'nam bow’rs (Aonian-Twit’nam bow'rs)!

Thy softest plenitude of beauties shed, Thick as the winter stars, or fummer flow'rs;

Albe the tuneful master (ah!) be dead. To Colin next he taught my youth to fing, My reed to warble, to resound my ftring: The king of shepherd's he, of poet's he the king. Hail, happy scenes, where joy wou'd choose to dwell;

Hail, golden days, which Saturn deems his own; Hail music, which the mules scant excel;

Hail flowrets, not unworthy Venus' crown. Ye linnets, larks, ye thrushes, nightingales ; Ye hills, ye plains, ye groves, ye ftreams, ye vales, Ye ever happy scenes! all you, your poet hails. All hail to thee, O MAY! the crown of all !

The recompence and glory of my song: Ne small the recompence, ne glory small,

If gentle ladies, and the tuneful-throng, With lover's-myrtle, and with poet's-bay, Fairly bedight, approve the simple lay, And think on THOMALIN whene'er they hail thee,



ALL the world's a fiage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits, and their entrances ; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven Ages.-At first, the INFANT,

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