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III.

His head my fond bosom would bear,
And my heart would foon beat him to reft;
Let the fwain that is flighted despair,
But Colin is only in jeft:
No death the deceiver designs,

Let the maid that is ruin'd despair;
For Colin but dies in his lines,
And gives himself that modifh air.

IV.

Can fhepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes paffion his sport,
Beware of fo fatal a game:

My voice of no mufic can boaft,

Nor my perfon of ought that is fine,

But Colin may find, to his coft,

A face that is fairer than mine.

V.

Ah! then I will break my lov'd crook,
To thee I'll bequeath all my sheep,
And die in the much-favour'd brook,
Where Colin does now fit and weep:
Then mourn the fad fate that you gave,
In fonnets fo fmooth and divine;
Perhaps, I may rife from my grave,
To hear fuch foft mufic as thine.

VI.

Of the violet, daisy, and rose,
The hearts-eafe, the lily, and pink,
Did thy fingers a garland compofe,

And crown'd by the rivulet's brink;.
How oft, my dear swain, did I fwear,
How much my fond love did admire
Thy verses, thy shape, and thy air,
Though deck'd in thy rural attire!

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Your fheep-hook you rul'd with fuch art,
That all your small subjects obey'd;
And still you reign'd king of this heart,
Whofe paffion you falfely upbraid;
How often, my swain, have I said,
Thy arms are a palace to me,

And how well I could live in a fhade,
Though adorned with nothing but thee!

VIII.

Oh! what are the sparks of the town,
Though never fo fine and so gay?
I freely would leave beds of down,
For thy breast on a bed of new hay:
Then, Colin, return once again,
Again make me happy in love,

Let me find thee a faithful true swain,
And as conftant a nymph I will prove.

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EPIGRAM

ON A LADY WHO SHED HER WATER AT SEEING THE TRAGEDY OF CATO; OCCASIONED BY AN EPIGRAM ON A LADY WHO WEPT AT IT.

W

HILSTmaudlin Whigs deplore their Cato's fate,
Still with dry eyes the Tory Celia fate :
But though her pride forbade her eyes to flow,
The gufhing waters found a vent below.

Though fecret yet with copious streams fhe mourns,
Like twenty River-Gods with all their urns.
Let others fcrew an hypocritic face,
She fhews her grief in a fincerer place!
Here Nature reigns, and paffion void of art;
For this road leads directly to the heart.

IMITATED IN LATIN.

PLORAT fata fui dum cætera turba Catonis,

Ecce! oculis ficcis Cælia fixa fedet; At quanquam lacrymis faftus vetat ora rigari, Invenêre viam quâ per opaca fluant: Clam dolet illa quidem, manat tamen humor abundè, Numinis ex urna, ceu fluvialis aqua. Diftorquent aliæ vultus, fimulantque dolorem:

Quæ magè fincera eft Cælia parte dolet. Quâ mera natura eft, non perfonata per artem, Quâque itur rectâ cordis ad ima viâ.

MÆCENAS.

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VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE HONOURS CONFER RED ON THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF

HALIFAX, 1714;

BEING THAT YEAR INSTALLED KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER.

HOEBUS and Cæfar once confpir'd to grace

PHOEBU

A noble knight, of ancient Tuscan race.
The monarch, greatly confcious of his worth,
From books and his retirement call'd him forth;
Adorn'd the patriot with the Civic crown,

The Conful's Fafces and Patrician gown:
The world's whole wealth he gave him to bestow,
And teach the ftreams of treasure where to flow:
To him he bade the fuppliant nations come,
And on his counfels fix'd the fate of Rome.

The God of Wit, who taught him first to fing,
And tune high numbers to the vocal string,
With jealous eyes beheld the bounteous king.
Forbear, he cry'd, to rob me of my share;
Our common favourite is our common care.
Honours and wealth thy grateful hand may give ;
But Phoebus only bids the poet live.

The fervice of his faithful heart is thine;
There let thy Julian Star an emblem shine;

His mind, and her imperial seat are mine.
Then bind his brow, ye Thefpian maids, he said:
The willing Mufes the command obey'd,
And wove the deathlefs laurel for his head.

EPIGRAM,

ON THE PRINCE OF WALES'S, THEN REGENT, AP PEARING AT THE FIRE IN SPRING-GARDIN, 1776.

THY Guardian, bleft Britannia, scorns to sleep,

When the fad fubjects of his father weep;
Weak princes by their fears increase distress;
He faces danger, and fo makes it lefs.

Tyrants on blazing towns may fmile with joy;
He knows, to fave, is greater than destroy.

VERSES

MADE TO A SIMILE OF MR. POPE.

WHEN at our house the servants brawl,

And raise an uproar in the hall;

When John the butler, and our Mary,
About the plate and linen vary:
Till the smart dialogue grows rich,
In fneaking dog! and ugly bitch!
Down comes my lady like the devil,
And makes them filent all and civil.
Thus cannon clears the cloudy air
And featters tempefts brewing there :
Thus bullies fometimes keep the peace,
And one fcold makes another ceafe.

SONG

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