Shew me no more those fnowy breasts, Where whilft mine eye with plenty feasts, Clip me no more in those dear arms, DONNE. SONG Go, and catch a falling ftar, What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'ft born to fee ftrange fights, Ride ten thousand days and nights, And fwear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'ft one, let me know, Tho' at next door we might meet. Though the were true when you met her, And laft till you write your letter, Yet the Will be Falfe ere I come to two or three. I SONG. NEVER ftoop'd fo low as they My love, tho' filly, is more brave, DAVISON. CUPID's PASTIME. FROM PERCY'S COLLECTION. Ir chanc'd of late a shepherd fwain, Her golden hair o'erfpread her face, Her breast lay bare to every blast. The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill, The crafty boy thus fees her fleep, Whom if the wak'd he durft not see, Behind her closely seeks to creep, Before her nap fhould ended be. There come, he fteals her fhafts away, But ere she wakes hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone but she awakes, And spies the fhepherd standing by, Her bended bow, in haste she takes, And at the fimple swain lets fly. Forth flew the fhaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain; But up again forthwith he ftarts, And to the nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to fee fo ftrange a fight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded ftrength amidst his pain. Her angry eyes were great with tears, And try them on herself she will. Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy fhaft, Each little touch will pierce thy heart; Alas! thou know'ft not Cupid's craft, Revenge is joy, the end is fmart. Yet try the will, and pierce fome bare, |