AN ANSWER TO CHLOE. To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment, at once, and my passion you wrong: You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song? What I speak, my fair Chloe! and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art; I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart. The God of us verse-men, you know, child! the Sun, So, when I am wearied with wandering all day, They were but my visits, but thou art my home. Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, OVER the mountains, And under the waves, Over the fountains, And under the graves, Under the floods which are deepest, Over rocks which are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place. For the glow-worm to lie, LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. Where the gnat dares not venture, But if Love come he will enter, Well may the eagle Stoop down to the fist, Or you may inveigle The Phoenix of the east; He will find out the way. From court to the cottage, From the king unto the beggar Love conquers all. Though ne'er so stout and lordly, Strive, or do, what you may, Yet be you ne'er so hardy, Love will find out the way. Love hath power over princes, In any provinces, Such is Love's power, There is no resisting, But him to obey; In spite of all contesting, Love will find out the way. BALLAD. If that he were hidden, And all men that are Were strictly forbidden That place to declare; Winds that have no abidings, Pitying their delay, Would come and bring him tidings, And direct him the way. If the earth should part him, If the seas should o'erthwart him, He would swim to the shore. Should his love become a swallow, Through the air to stray, Love will lend wings to follow, There is no striving To cross his intent, There is no contriving His plots to prevent; But if once the message greet him, That his true love doth stay, If death should come and meet him, Love will find out the way. IN ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent, Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, |