But why, my Chloe! tell me why, E'en sleep affords my soul no rest, Thee bathing in the stream I view ; With thee I dance, with thee I feast, Thee through the gloomy grove pursue. Triumphant god of gay desires! Thy vassal's raging pains remove; I burn, I burn, with fiercer fires, Oh! take my life, or crown my love! JAMES THOMSON, Born 1700, died 1748. SONG. UNLESS with my Amanda bless'd, In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast, Awaken'd by the genial year, In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear : Without my love there is no Spring. SONG. FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove And when we meet a mutual heart, Bid us sigh on from day to day, But busy, busy still art thou, The heart from pleasure to delude, To join the gentle to the rude. For once, O Fortune! hear my prayer, And I absolve thy future care; All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine. K ON SOAME JENYNS, Born 1703-4, died 1787. CHLOE ANGLING. yon fair brook's enamell'd side, Behold, my Chloe stands ! Her angle trembles o'er the tide, Calm as the gentle waves appear That curls the brook below. Such charms her sparkling eyes disclose, From each green bank, and mossy cave, A scaly race repair; They sport beneath the crystal wave, And kiss her image there. Here the bright silver eel, enroll'd In shining volumes, lies; There basks the carp, bedropp'd with gold, In the sunshine of her eyes. With hungry pikes in wanton play The timorous trouts appear; The hungry pikes forget to prey, With equal haste the thoughtless crew Nor grieve they, whilst her eyes they view, Thus I too view'd the nymph of late; Ah, simple fish, beware! Soon will you find my wretched fate, And struggle in the snare." But, fair one, though these toils succeed, Nor think o'er all the scaly breed Remember, in a watery glass His charms Narcissus spied, When for his own bewitching face The youth despair'd and died. No more then harmless fish ensnare, Lest, whilst you baits for them prepare, Love find one out for you. CHLOE HUNTING. WHILST thousands court fair Chloe's love, She fears the dangerous joy, But, Cynthia-like, frequents the grove, As lovely and as coy. With the same speed she seeks the hind, Or hunts the flying hare; She leaves pursuing swains behind, Oh, strange caprice in thy dear breast, To follow thus each worthless beast, Consider, fair, what 'tis you do, |