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Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last?
While innocence allow'd to waste ?
The Princess ELIZABETH:
A Ballad alluding to a story recorded of her, when she was prisoner at WOODSTOCK, 1554.
Great Eliza captive lay?
Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?
While the nymphs and swains delighted
Tript around in all their pride ;
Thus the royal maiden cry’d.
“ Bred on plains, or born in vallies,
Who would bid those scenes adieu ?
Who would ever courts pursue ?
Malice never taught to treasure,
Censure never taught to bear :
Love is all the damsel's care,
How can they of humble station
Vainly blame the pow’rs above ?
Which allows them all to love?
Love like air is widely given;
Pow'r nor chance can these restrain;
Only purest on the plain!
Peers can no such charms discover,
All in stars and garters drest,
With his nosegay on his breast.
Pinks and roses in profusion,
Said to fade when Chloe's near ;
But the shepherd is fincere.
Hark to yonder milk-maid singing
Chearly o'er the brimming pail;
Sweetly paint the golden vale,
yet did courtly maiden Move so sprightly, look so fair ; Never breast with jewels laden
Pour a fong so void of care,
Would indulgent heav'n had granted
Me fome rural damsel's part !
Then had been my shepherd's heart.
Then, with him, o'er hills and mountains,
Free from fetters, might I rove: Fearless taste the crystal fountains ;
Peaceful Neep beneath the grove.
Rustics had been more forgiving;
Partial to my virgin bloom : None had envy'd me when living ;
None had triumph'd o'er my tomb."
ODE to a Young Lady, Somewhat too follicitous about her manner
URVEY, my fair ! that lucid stream
Adown the smiling valley ftray;
To regulate its winding way?
So pleas'd I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow :
Can there one single grace bestow.
Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enameld o’er ;
Instruct one flow'r to please us more?
As vain it were, with artful dye,
To change the bloom thy cheeks disclose; And oh may LAURA, ere she try,
With fresh vermilion paint the rose.
Hark, how the wood-lark's tuneful throat
Can every study'd grace excel ;