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Then will I muse, and pensive say,

Why did not these enjoyments last?
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste ?
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

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The Princess ELIZABETH:

A Ballad alluding to a story recorded of her, when she was prisoner at WOODSTOCK, 1554.

ILL

you

Great Eliza captive lay?
Each ambitious thought resigning,

Foe to riches, pomp, and sway?

While the nymphs and swains delighted

Tript around in all their pride ;
Envying joys by others fighted,

Thus the royal maiden cry’d.

“ Bred on plains, or born in vallies,

Who would bid those scenes adieu ?
Stranger to the arts of malice,

Who would ever courts pursue ?

Malice never taught to treasure,

Censure never taught to bear :
Love is all the shepherd's pleasure ;

Love is all the damsel's care,

How can they of humble station

Vainly blame the pow’rs above ?
Or accuse the difpenfation

Which allows them all to love?

Love

Love like air is widely given;

Pow'r nor chance can these restrain;
Trueft, noblest gifts of heaven!

Only purest on the plain!

Peers can no such charms discover,

All in stars and garters drest,
As, on Sundays, does the lover

With his nosegay on his breast.

Pinks and roses in profusion,

Said to fade when Chloe's near ;
Fops may use the same allusion;

But the shepherd is fincere.

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Hark to yonder milk-maid singing

Chearly o'er the brimming pail;
Cowslips all around her springing

Sweetly paint the golden vale,

Never

yet did courtly maiden Move so sprightly, look so fair ; Never breast with jewels laden

Pour a fong so void of care,

1

Would indulgent heav'n had granted

Me fome rural damsel's part !
All the empire I had wanted

Then had been my shepherd's heart.

Then,

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."

O DE

ODE to a Young Lady, Somewhat too follicitous about her manner

of expression.

SUR

URVEY, my fair ! that lucid stream

Adown the smiling valley ftray;
Would art attempt, or fancy dream,

To regulate its winding way?

So pleas'd I view thy shining hair

In loose dishevel'd ringlets flow :
Not all thy art, not all thy care

Can there one single grace bestow.

Survey again that verdant hill,

With native plants enameld o’er ;
Say, can the painter's utmost skill

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 ;
Let art constrain the rambling note,
And will she, Laura, please so well ?

3

Oh

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