Distinguish'd by his purple, and his cares, No age, no state, unhappy mortals know, Death. DEATH is the road to everlasting life, Death is a friend, that sets the wretched free, And makes the slave no more his bondage fear ; And cures mankind of all their worldly ills. Death is a gate, that opens differently The Modish Lover. WITH down-cast eyes, and folded arms, Next morn, abroad he walk'd again, Nor was Florinda thought of more. But giddy chance the fickle youth had brought Close by that spot where he her name had wrote. The place recals to mind his flame, When all in love he wander'd there: Twas here, he cries, I left the name Of yesterday's commanding fair. Pensive a-while he stood, then look'd to find What beauteous image had possess'd his mind. But vain, alas! his searches prove, The rain had fallen, the wind had blown, And sympathizing with his love, Away was every letter flown: Nor could his faithless memory declare The Expostulation. WHY should I pine, lament, and die, More soft she seems than falling snow; When those bewitching eyes I view, No longer will I waste my time, For none are charming but the kind. But, stay-behold the blooming fair! Tis vain elsewhere to seek redress, Her breast to cure the lover's woes. EDWARD LOVIBOND. 1775. A country gentleman whose amusements in verse were collected after his death. He was the Author of "The Tears of Old May Day" printed in No. 82 of the World, a poem which has been often praised. FINE B On a very fine Lady. -R observes no other rules Than those the coterie prize; She thinks, whilst lords continue fools, 'Tis vulgar to be wise : Thinks rudeness wit in noble dames, Adultery, love polite; That ducal stars shoot brighter flames Than all the host of light. |