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AN ANSWER TO CHLOE.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,

Your judgment, at once, and my pa ssion 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,

How, after his journeys, he sets up his rest; If, at morning, o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,

At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.

So, when I am wearied with wandering all day,

To thee, my delight, in the evening I come; No matter what beauties I saw on my way,

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,

As he was a poet sublimer than me.

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OVER the mountains,

And under the waves, Over the fountains,

And under the graves, Under the floods which are deepest,

Which do Neptune obey, Over rocks which are steepest,

Love will find out the way.

Where there is no place

For the glow-worm to lie,
Where there is no place
For the receipt of a fly,

LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.

Where the gnat dares not venture,

Lest herself fast she lay,
But if Love come he will enter,

And find out the way.

Well may the eagle

Stoop down to the fist, Or you may inveigle

The Phoenix of the east; With fear the tiger's moved,

To give over his prey, But never stop a lover,

He will find out the way.

From court to the cottage,

In bower and in hall,
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,

And greatest emperors, 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,

He would gallop it o'er;
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,

And will find out the way.

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.

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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, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man, Called in the neighbourhood Philemon, Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night. And then the hospitable sire Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;

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