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TO A LADY.
Full of pity as may be,
Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth :
Modest in her most of mirth:
Such she is: and if
That she be but somewhile young;
TO A LADY
ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.
Fair Lady, when you see the grace
A cherry lip that would entice
reflection is alone
« Now you have what you love (you'll say,)
ON A GIRDLE.
That which her slender waist confined
It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale that held that lovely dear; My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still! Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost
fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that lose the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love: 0, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
TO HIS LOVE, WEEPING.
UNCLOSE those eye-lids, and outshine
The brightness of the breaking day!
Why should it fade so soon away?
Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover! It is not love's but sorrow's duty,
To die so soon for a dead lover. Banish, oh! banish grief, and then Our joys will bring our hopes again.
Tell me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor curls in order laid;
That like an angel sings;
I would have all these things.
And it must be a she;
Is, that she will love me.
The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
Each common object brings.