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For now she rules me with her look,

And round me winds her harlot chain ; Whilst by a strange enchantment struck,

My nobler will recoils in vain.
And soon my death will prove, I guess,
The triumph of unthankfulness.

But, had the oak denied its shade,

The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,

Might still have pin’d in want and woe : Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.

[MOORE.]

When

EN Damon languish'd at my feet, And I beheld him true, The moments of delight how sweet!

But ah! how swift they flew ! The sunny bill, the flow'ry vale,

The garden and the grove Have echoed to his ardent tale,

And vows of endless love.

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize, 4

He left her to complain,
To talk of joy with weeping eyes,

And measure timely pain.
But heaven will take the mourner's part

In pity to despair ;
And the last sigh that rends the heart

Shall waft the spirit there.,

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From anxious zeal and factious strife,
From all the uneasy cares of life,
From beauty still to merit blind,
And still to fools and coxcombs kind; :
To where the woods in brightest green,
Like rising theatres are seen,
Where gently murm’ring runs the rill,
And draws fresh streams from ev'ry hill;

Where Philomel in mournful strains
Like me of hopeless love complains,
Retir'd I pass the livelong day,
And idly trifle life away :

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My lyre to tender accents strung,
I tell each slight, each scorn and wrong,
Then reason to my aid I call,
Review past scenes, and scorn them all.

Superior thoughts my mind engage,
Allur'd by Newton's tempting page,
Through new-found worlds I wing my flight,
And trace the glorious source of light:
But should Clarinda there appear,
With all her charms of shape and air,
How frail my fixt resolves would prove,
Again I'd yield, again I'd love.

WA

HY heaves my fond bosom ? ah what can it

mean! Why flutters my heart that was once so serene? Why this sighing and trembling when Daphne is

near ? Or why, when she's absent, this sorrow and fear?

Y

Forever, methinks, I with wonder could trace
The thousand soft charms that embellish your face.
Each moment I view thee, new beauties I find;
With thy face I am charm’d, but enslav'd by thy

mind.

Untainted by folly, unsullied by pride,
There native good humour and virtue reside.
Pray heaven that virtue thy soul may supply [die.
With compassion for him, who, without thee must

Tell me, Damon, dost thou languish

With a slow, consuming fire;
Melting still in speechless anguish,

For the maid thou dost admire ?
If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Flying, dost thou still pursue her?

Absent, does she haunt thy dream?
Present, dost thou ceaseless woo her?

Is her worth thy only theme?

If thy heart such passion prove,
Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Does each rival's merit grieve thee?

Whilst in health, dost thou complain? Can no halm but love relieve thee?

None but Celia ease thy pain? If thy heart such passion prove, Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Canst thou view each bright perfection

In her mind, and in her face? Does each fault escape detection,

Ev'ry blemish seem a grace? If thy heart such passion prove, Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

Then in love if there be pleasure,

Unallay'd by care or pain, Venus shall confer the treasure

On her true devoted swain. Venus shall thy suit approve; Shepherd, thou dost truly love.

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