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By love's respectful modesty, he deem'd
The theft profane, if aught profane to love
Can e'er be deem'd; and, struggling, from the fade
With headlong hurry fled: but firit these lines,
Trac'd by his ready pencil, on the bank
With trembling hand he threw: “Bathe on, my fair,
“ Yet unbeheld, fave by the facred eye
“ Of faithful love: I go to guard thy haunt,
To keep from thy recess each vagrant foot,
“ And each licent’ous eye.” With wild surprize,
As if to marble ftruck, devoid of sense,
A stupid moment motionless the flood:
* So stands the statue *that enchants the world,
So bending, tries to vie the matchless boati,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.
Recov’ring, swift she flew to find those robes
Which blissful Eden knew not; and, array'd
In careless hafte, th’alarming paper snatch’d.
But when her DAMON's well-known hand the faw,
Her terrors vanish’d, and a softer train
Of mix'd emotions, hard to be describ’d,
Her sudden bosom feiz'd: shame void of guilt,
The charming blush of innocence, esteem
And admiration of her lover's flame,
By modefiy exaited : ev'n a sense
Of self-approving beauty fiole across
Her busy thought. At length a tender calm,
Huth'd by degrees the tuniult of her foul;
And on the spreading beach, that o'er the fireain
Incumbent hung, the with the sylvan pen
Of rural lovers this confession carv’d,
Which foon her DAMON kiss'd with weeping joy :
• Dear youth! sole judge of what these verles mean,
• By fortune too much favour'd, but by love,

Alas! not favour'd less, be full as now · Discreet: the time may come you need not fly.'

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* The Venus of Medicis.


IF Riches could prolong our stay,

To court them I'd begin ;
That when grim Minos came my way,

I'd bid him call again.
But since I find it all in vain,

And death pays no respect,
No longer shall they give me pain,

But treat them withi neglect.
For foon or late the lot must come,

the debt we owe, And lay us in the filent tomb,

Whether we're rich or no.
Then give me, gods, but health and friends,

And I'll no longer grieve;
But laugh at care, which life attends,

And WEALTH to others leave.
The gen’rous glass I'll freely quaff,

And fill it o’er and o'er, 'Till DEATH shall stop the jocund laugh,

By knocking at my door.

To be, or not to be that is the question ;-

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by oppoling, end them ?-To die;-to sleep;-
No more ;-and, by a feep, to say, we end
The heart-ach, and the thousand natural fhocks,
That flesh is heir to ;-'tis a confummation
Devoutly to be with’d.' To die ;--to sleep ;--
To fleep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub;
For in that seep of death what dreams may come,
When we have Thuffled off this mortal coil,
Muft give us pause ;-there's the respect
That makes calamity of fo long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppreffor's wrong, the proud-man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The infolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns-puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is fickly'd o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprizes of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-

AT the close of the day, when the hanlet is still,

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the

grove'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin’d,

A HERMIT his nightly complaint thus began : Tho' mournful his numbers, his soul was resign’d;

He thought as a fage, tho’ he felt as a man. “ Ah! why thus abandon’d to darkness and woe,

Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain? “ For fpring ihall return and a lover beflow,

“ And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.


“ Yet if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay! “ Mourn, sweetest companion ; man calls thee

" to mourn: "Osoothe him, whose pleasures,like thine, pass away!

“ Full quickly they pass—but they never return! « Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

“ The moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays; “ But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high

“ She shone, and the planets were loft in her blaze. “ Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue

“ The path that conducts thee to fplendouragain: “ But man's faded glory no change shall renew;

“ Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain. 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more :

“I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; “ For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, “ Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt’ring

66 with dew. “ Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

" Kind nature the embrio-blossom Thall save : “ But when shall spring visit the mould'ring urn?

“ O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ?"

A THICK-twisted brake, in the time of a storm,

Seem’d kindly to cover a Meep:
So fnug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly footh’d hiin aseep.
The clouds are now scatter'd-thewinds are at peace;

The iheep to his pasture's inclin’d:
But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fieece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.
My friend, who the thicket of law never try’d,

Consider before you get in; 'Though judgment and sentence are país'd on your

By Jove you'll be fleec'd to the skin.


NEAR yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts in

Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir’d;
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound;
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour fplendours of that festive place;
The white-walh'd wall, the nicely fanded floor;
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The cheft, contriv'd a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of draw’rs by day;
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use ;
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flow'rs, and fennel gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for Mow,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glitten'd in a row.

Vain transitory splendour! could not all
Reprieve the toit’ring manfion from its fall!
Obscure it sinks, nor Thall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peafant shall repair,
To sweet obl’vion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the wood-man's ballad shall prevail,
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear;
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear;
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be preli,
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the reft.

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