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That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse ; and worst
Times still succeed the former.
And, while ye may, go marry:
SONG. WHEN Fanny, blooming fair,
First caught my ravish'd sight, Struck with her shape and air,
I felt a strange delight: Whilst eagerly I gazed,
Admiring every part, And every feature praised,
She stole into my heart. In her bewitching eyes
Ten thousand loves appear; There Cupid basking lies,
His shafts are hoarded there : Her blooming cheeks are dyed
With colour all their own,
Of roses newly blown.
The lucky hand of Jove ;
The beauteous queen of love ;
What flames my nerves invade
When I behold the breast Of that too charming maid
Rise, suing to be press'd!
Venus round Fanny's waist
Has her own Cestus bound, With guardian Cupids graced,
Who dance the circle round.
Who shall her zone unloose !
EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,
DRIED be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
More fix’d, more true than I !
Dost ask how long my vows shall stay
When all that's new is pass'd?
How long my life will last ?
And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio’s death, That he who only breathes for you
Must yield that faithful breath? Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven here.
I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
But it consumes my heart!
This cherish'd woe,
this loved despair, My lot for ever be ; So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!
And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
My life's last hope would speak
I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,
Nor mercy ask for me;
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.
IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL. Yes, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid
Whom in days of my childhood I knew; All night she would weep in the cold willow shade,
And her tears mingle warm with the dew! I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclined
'Mid the willows all dripping and chill, I have heard her exclaim while she shrunk in
In pity, fond bosom, lie still!' [the wind, The youth whom she loved had been torn from
By a fate too severely unkind, [her arms Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms,
And clouded the beams of her mind! Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine,
And I feel in my heart that they will ; Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine, ' In pity, fond bosom, lie still !'
TO HENRY. WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,
[flow, High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you,
Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no! I own it would please me, at home would you
Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go;[tarry, But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry, hall blame your departure? Oh! no, my
Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are
straying, That heart which is mine on a rival bestow; Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betray. ing,
[no! Do you think I suspect you? Oh! no, my love, I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me,
Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe; Yet should you dishonour my truth and deceive me,
[love, no! Should I e'er cease to love you? Oh! no, my
M, G. LEWIS,
About the cheeks of Anne.
To find out where she ran;
Of gentle mistress Anne.