LYING.

Che con le lor bugie pajon divini. Mauro d'Arcano.

I Do confess, in many a sigh,

My lips have breath'd you many a lie; And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them, for a lie or two?

Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving;
Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.
If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,
Were aught but lying's bright illusion,
This world would be in strange confusion.
If ladies' eyes were, every one,
As lovers swear, a radiant sun,
Astronomy must leave the skies,
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.
Oh, no-believe me, lovely girl,
When nature turns your teeth to pearl,
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,
Your amber locks to golden wire,
Then, only then can Heaven decree,
That you should live for only me,
Or I for you, as night and morn,
We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,
For once I'll tell you truth, my dear.
Whenever you may chance to meet
Some loving youth, whose love is sweet,
Long as you're false and he believes you,
Long as you trust and he deceives you,
So long the blissful bond endures,
And while he lies, his heart is yours:
But, oh you've wholly lost the youth
The instant that he tells you truth.

ANACREONTIC.

FRIEND of my soul, this goblet sip, "Twill chase that pensive tear;

F

It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose. The principles of moral science were so very imperfectly understood that the founder of a new sect, in forming his ethical code, might consult either fancy or temperament, and adapt it to his own passions and propensities; so that Mahomet, with a little more learning, might have flourished as a philosopher in those days, and would have required but the polish of the schools to become the rival of Aristippus in morality. In the science of nature, too, though some valuable truths were discovered by them, they seemed hardly to know they were truths, or at least were as well satisfied with errors; and Xenophanes, who asserted that the stars were igneous clouds, lighted up every night and extinguished again in the morning, was thought and styled a philosopher, as generally

as he who anticipated Newton in developing the arrangement of the universe.

For this opinion of Xenophanes, see Plutarch. de Placit. Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. It is impossible to read this treatise of Plutarch, without alternately admiring the genius, and smiling at the absurdities of the philosophers.

2 The ancients had their lucernæ cubiculariæ or bedchamber lamps, which, as the emperor Galienus said, "nil cras meminere ;" and, with the same commendation of secrecy, Praxagora addresses her lamp in Aristophanes, Exzàng. We may judge how fanciful they were, in the use and embellishment of their lamps, from the famous symbolic Lucerna, which we find in the Romanum Museum Mich. Ang. Causei, | p. 127.

3 Hesiod, who tells us in melancholy terms of his father's flight to the wretched village of Ascra. Egy. zai 'Husg. v. 251 4 Εννυχίαι στείχον, περικαλλια οσσαν μέσαι. Τheog. v. 10.

5 Και μοι σκηπτρον εδόν, δαφνης εξίθηλια οζον. Ιd. v. 30.

1

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK,

CALLED

"THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;"

IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES.

THIS tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself.
The book of life, which I have trac'd,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they lov'd such follies dearly:
Yet still, O book! the allusion stands ;
For these were penn'd by female hands:
The rest
alas! I own the truth -
Have all been scribbled so uncouth
That Prudence, with a with'ring look,
Disdainful, flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there
Have oft been stain'd with blots of care;
And sometimes hours of peace, I own,
Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
White as the snowings of that heav'n
By which those hours of peace were given.
But now no longer — such, oh, such
The blast of Disappointment's touch!
No longer now those hours appear;
Each leaf is sullied by a tear:
Blank, blank is ev'ry page with care,
Not ev'n a folly brightens there.
Will they yet brighten? never, never!
Then shut the book, O God, for ever!

TO ROSA.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining, Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest, When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,

And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

But, when the battle came,
The hero's eye breath'd flame :

Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;

While, to his wak'ning ear,

No other sounds were dear

sung.

But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,

And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest;

When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, And flights of young doves made his helmet

their nest.

So little of wrong is there in it,

That I wish all my errors were lodg'd on your lip, And I'd kiss them away in a minute.

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,

From a world which I know thou despisest; And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed As e'er on the couch of the wisest.

1 Εγχει, και παλιν επι, παλιν, παλιν, Ηλιόδωρας
Είτε, συν ακρητῳ το γλυκυ μισή όνομα.
Και με τον βρεχθέντα μύροις και χθιζόν εόντα,
Μναμοσυνον κείνας, αμφιτιθεί στέφανον·

Δακρυε φιλεραστον ιδου ῥόδον, σύνεκα κειναν
Αλλοθι κ' ου κολποις ἡμετέροις εσορα.

BRUNCK. Analect. tom. i. p. 28.