FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG.

JOHN DRYDEN.

FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserv'd for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
Oh, pity and distinguish me!

As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.

Your face for conquest was design'd;
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

No graces can your form improve,

But all are lost unless

you love;

While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain :

In pity then prevent my fate,

For after dying all reprieve's too late.

YE HAPPY SWAINS.

Sir GEORGE ETHEREDGE, born about 1636, died 1683. Music by DAMASENE, in Ritson's "Select Collection of English Songs."

YE happy swains, whose hearts are free
From love's imperial chain,

Take warning, and be taught by me
To avoid the enchanting pain;
Fatal, the wolves to trembling flocks,
Fierce winds to blossoms prove;
To careless seamen, hidden rocks;
To human quiet, love.

Since thence we can such treasures raise,

Let's no expense refuse,

In love let's lay out all our days:

How can we e'er be poor,

When every blessing that we use
Begets a thousand more?

THOUGH When I lov'd thee thou wert fair,

Thou art no longer so:

Those glories, all the pride they wear

Unto opinion owe.

Beauties, like stars, in borrow'd lustre shine,

And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye
Do now with mine expire;

Thy brightest graces fade and die

At once with my desire.

Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn

Then proud Celinda, hope no more
To be implor'd or woo'd;

Since by thy scorn thou dost restore
The wealth my love bestow'd;
And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind.

NOT, Celia, that I juster am

Or better than the rest;

For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest.

For I am tied to very thee
By every thought I have;
Thy face I only came to see,
Thy heart I only crave.

All that in woman is ador'd
In thy dear self I find;
For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.

Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?

When change itself can give no more,
'Tis easy to be true.

THE LOVER'S VOW.

BISHOP ATTERBURY, born 1662, died 1732.

FAIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth
For having lov'd before;

For men, till they have learn'd the truth,
Strange deities adore.

My heart, 'tis true, hath often rang'd,
Like bees on gaudy flowers;

And many a thousand loves hath chang'd,
Till it was fix'd on yours.

But, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes,
'Twas soon determin'd there;

Stars might as well forsake the skies,
And vanish into air.

When I from this great rule do err,

New beauties to adore,

May I again turn wanderer,
And never settle more.