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Love, like spring-tides full and high,

Swells in ev'ry youthful vein: But each tide does less supply,

Till they quite shrink in again ; If a flow in age appear, 'Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

CONSTANCY.

[ROCHESTER.]

I CANNO

CANNOT change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn : Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you

alone was born, No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A surer

way And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on and die.

I'll try :

When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies;

And you to mind shall ca!!, The sighs that now unpitied rise,

The tears that vainly fall :

That welcome hour that ends this smart,

Will then begin your pain ; For such a faithful tender heart

Can never break in vain.

[Sir John SUCKLING.]

I PRITHEE send

me
back

my heart, Since I cannot have thine : For if from yours you will not part,

Why then should you have mine?

Yet, now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain :
For you've a thief in ev'ry eye,

Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lic,

And yet not lodge together?
Oh Love ! where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever ?

But Love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:
For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine:
For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine.

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M y days have been so wondrous free,

The little birds that fly,
With careless ease from tree to tree,

Were not so blest as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine encreas'd their stream? Or ask the flying galos, if e'er

I lent a sigh to them.

But now my former days retire,

And I'm by beauty caught : The tender chains of sweet desire

Are fix'd upon my thought,

An eager hope within my breast

Does ev'ry doubt controul ;
And lovely Nancy stands confest,

The mistress of my soul.

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Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,

Ye swains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,

Ye close retreats of Love ;

With all of nature, all of art,

Assist the dear design,
O teach a young unpractis'd heart

To make her ever mine.

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The very thought of change I hate,

As much as of despair,
And hardly covet to be great

Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my

mind
Is mix'd with soft distress;
Yet while the fair I love is kind,

I cannot wish at less.

[GARRICK.]

If truth can fix thy wav'ring heart,

Let Damon urger his claim,
He feels the passion void of art,
Thé
pure,

the constant flame.

Though sighing swains their torments tell,

Their sensual love contemn; They only prize the beauteous shell,

But slight the inward gem.

Possession cures the wounded heart,

Destroys the transient fire;
But when the mind receives the dart,

Enjoyment whets desire.

By age your beauty will decay,

Your mind improves with years ; As when the blossoms fade away,

The rip’ning fruit appears.

May heaven and Sylvia grant my suit,

And bless each future hour,
That Damon, who can taste the fruit,

May gather ev'ry flower.

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