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Think not while gayer swains invite
Thy feet dear Girl, to pleasure's bowers, My faded form shall meet thy sight
And cloud my Laura's smiling hours,
Thou art the world's delighted guest,
And all the young admire, is thine; Then I'll not wound thy gentle breast
By numb'ring o'er the wounds of mine.
I will not say how well, how long,
This faithful heart has sigh'd for thee But leave thee happier swains among,
Content, if thou contented be.
But Laura, should Misfortune's wand
Bid all thy youth's gay visions fly, From thy soft cheek the rose command,
And force the lustre from thine eye ;
Then, thoughtless of my own distress,
I'll haste thy comforter to prove, And Laura shall my friendship bless Altho' alas ! she scorns my love.
A. Opie. 1793. The SONG of PLEASURE.
The genial influence of the day
And now within my throbbing breast
I hasted to the shady grove,
Where Pleasure dwells with Love.
There Youth and Love and Beauty bound
She tuned the string
I heard her sing
lullid every care and every thought to rest,
Sons of Nature hither haste,
And your carcs shall fly away
prove A softer fight, the fight of love. While
you in soft repose are laid Underneath the myrtle shade, Amid the murky glooms of Death The Sons of Battle pant for breath.
Let the philosophic sage,