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And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me,

When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me

But could I expect any more from a woman? O woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure;

And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were only materials of pleasure,

And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it,

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; But, oh! while he's blest, let him die on the minute

If he live but a day, he'll be surely betrayed.


Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, &c.
CEASE the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own
Which all, alas ! have falsely flown !
What hours, Catullus, once were thine !
How fairly seemed thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst fly to meet
The girl who smiled so rosy sweet-
The girl thou lov’dst with fonder pain
Than e'er thy heart can feel again!
You met-your souls seemed all in one
Sweet little sports were said and done-
Thy heart was warm enough for both,
And hers, indeed, was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine:
But, ah ! those hours no longer shine!
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so dear before;
And all Catullus now can do
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doomed to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight

Fly, perjured girl !—but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the siren tone
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?
Oh! none. -And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more !

THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part,

Our souls it cannot, shall not sever;
The heart will seek its kindred heart,

And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed ?

Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed

To leave so dear, so fond a lover? Does she too mourn ?- Perhaps she may;

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting: But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating? I oft have loved the brilliant glow

Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming? No, no !-Yet, love, I will not chide,

Although your heart were fond of roving : Nor that, nor all the world beside,

Could keep your faithful boy from loving. You'll soon be distant from his eye,

And, with you, all that's worth possessir g. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing !



IN vain we fondly strive to trace
The soul's reflection in the face;
In vain we dwell on lines and crosses
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis ;
Boobies have looked as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagirite :
And many a sage and learned skull
Has peeped through windows dark and dull !
Since then, though art do all it can,
We ne'er can reach the inward man,
Nor inward woman, from without,
(Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt)
I think 'twere well if Nature could
(And Nature could, if Nature would)
Some pretty short descriptions write,
In tablets large, in black and white,
Which she might hang about our throttica:
Like labels upon physic-bottles.
There we might read of all—But stay-
As learned dialectics say,
The argument most apt and ample,
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the soul of Lucy Lindon,
This is the label she'd have pinned on.


Within this vase there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind !
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veiled,
Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're abie,
That Nature wrote a second label ;
They're her own words—at least suppose so-
And boldly pin it on Pompaso.

LABEL Second.
When I composed the fustian brai::
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning ;
And when I saw the void behind,
I filled it up with-froth and wind!

SWEET lady! look not thus again :

Those little pouting smiles recall
A maid remembered now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all!,

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Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh !
Yes, I did love her—madly love-

She was the sweetest, best deceiver !
And oft she swore she'd never rove!

And I was destined to believe her!
Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of her whose smile could thus betray.
Alas ! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away.
And when the spell that stole my mind

On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the heart which she resigned

Will err again, and fly to thee !


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Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,

A dream, I find, illusory as sweet ;
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Is dearer far than passion's bland deceit!
I've heard you oft eternal truth declare ;

Your heart was only mine, I once believed.
Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air !

And must I say, my hopes were all deceived !
Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined,

That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal :
Julia ! 'tis pity, pity makes you kind ;

You know I love, and you would seem to feel.
But shall I still go revel in those arms

On bliss in which affection takes no part ?
No, no ! farewell ! you give me but your charms,

When I had fondly thought you gave your heart !

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