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Thou shalt eat curds and cream

All the year lafting;
And drink the crystal stream,

Pleasant in tasting :
Wigge and whey, while thou burst,

And ramble-berry, Pye-lid and pasty crust,

Pears, plums, and cherry; Thy raiment shall be thin,

Made of a weaven skin; Yet all not worth a pin!

Phillida flouts me!

If you

Fair maidens, have a care,

And in time take me ; I can have those as fair,

forsake me. For Doll the dairy-maid

Laugh'd on me lately, And wanton WINIFRED

Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my

nose : What wanton signs are those ?

Phillida flouts me!

I cannot work and sleep

All at a season;
Love wounds my heart so deep,

Without all reason.

I'gin to pine away,

With grief and forrow, Like to a fatted beast

Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear,

Within this thousand year, And all for very fear!

Phillida flouts me! From the fame, by D, Stroad.

ANSWER TO “ The Lover's MELANCHOLY,"

Return, my joys! and hither bring
A tongue not made to speak but sing;
A jolly spleen, an inward feast,
A causeless laugh without a jeft;
A face which gladness doth anoint,

An arm, for joy, flung out of joint;
A spriteful gait that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint;
A heart that's lighter than the air,
An eye ftill dancing in its sphere;
Strong mirth which nothing shall controul,
A body nimbler than a soul;
Free wand'ring thoughts, not tied to muse,
Which, thinking all things, nothing chuse,
Which, ere we see them come, are gone;
These life itself doth feed upon :
Then take no care, but only to be jolly,
To be more wretched than we muft, is folly,

This little piece is modern ; but it is so beautiful an imitation

of the old poets, that it is presumed every reader will see it with pleasure in this collection.

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THE INr.

How yonder ivy courts the oak,

And clips it with a false embrace! So I abide a wanton's yoke,

And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, The triumph of unthankfulness.

I guess,

How fain the tree would swell its rind!

But, vainly trying, it decays.
So fares it with my shackled mind,

So waftes the vigour of my days.
And soon our deaths will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

A lafs, forlorn for lack of grace,

My kindly pity first did move;
And, in a little moment's space,

This pity did engender love.
And now my death must prove, I guess,

The triumph of unthankfulness.

For now the rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilft, by a strange enchantment ftruck,

My nobler will recoils in vain.
And soon my death will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,

The weed had trail'd in duft below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pind in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

THE END.

LONDON, PRINTED BY T. RICKABY,

1790.

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