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FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG.

JOHN DRYDEN,

FAIR, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Resery'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.

Fly the fair sex, if bliss you prize ;

The snake's beneath the flower:
Who ever gaz'd on beauteous eyes

That tasted quiet more?
How faithless is the lovers' joy!

How constant is their care!
The kind with falsehood do destroy,

The cruel with despair.

CEASE, ANXIOUS WORLD.

Sir GEORGE ETIIREDGE.

CEASE, anxious world, your fruitless pain

To grasp forbidden store;
Your sturdy labours shall prove vain,

Your alchemy unblest;
Whilst seeds of far more precious ore

Are ripen'd in my breast.

My breast the forge of happier love,
Where

my

Lucinda lives;
And the rich stock does so improve,

As she her art employs,
That
every

smile and touch she gives Turns all to golden joys.

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?

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TIIOUGH 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 clie

At once with my desire.
Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
Thine cease to shine when iine 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.

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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 van into air.

When I from this great rule do err,

New beauties to adore, May I again turn wanderer,

And never settle more.

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