III.

It will much more redound

To our praise to be found,

In a world fo abounding with evil,

Unfpotted and pure;

Though not fo demure,

As to wage open war with the devil.

Nor figh to leave the flaunting town:
Can filent glens have charms for thee,

The lowly cot and ruffet gown?
No longer drefs'd in filken sheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say can't thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not caft a wifh behind?
Say can't thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
O can that foft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor fad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy!

O Nancy! can'ft thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy fwain mishap fhall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say should disease or pain befal,

Wilt thou affume the nurfe's care,
Nor wiftful those gay scenes recall
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling figh,
And clear with fmiles the bed of death?

And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear,

Nor then regret those scenes fo

gay,

Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

CYN

S 3

CYNTHIA, an Elegiac POEM.

By the Same.

Libeat tibi Cynthia mecum

Rofcida mufcofis antra tenere jugis.

PROPERT.

ENEATH an aged oak's embow'ring fhade,

BE

Whofe fpreading arms with gray mofs fringed were, Around whofe trunk the clasping ivy stray'd;

A love-lorn youth oft penfive would repair.

Faft by, a Naïd taught her ftream to glide,
Which through the dale a winding channel wore;

The filver willow deck'd its verdant fide,
The whisp'ring fedges wav'd along the fhore.

Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the dusky hill;
Here oft when Eve bedew'd the misty vale;
Carelefs he laid him all befide the rill,

And pour'd in ftrains like these his artless tale.

Ah! would he say

and then a figh would heave:

Ah Cynthia! sweeter than the breath of morn, Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,

Of thee bereft how fhall I live forlorn?

Ah! what avails this fweetly folemn bow'r
That filent ftream where dimpling eddies play;
Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r,

Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day?

Robb'd of my love, for how can these delight,
Though lavish Spring her fmiles around has caft!
Despair, alas! that whelms the foul in night,
Dims the fad eye and deadens every taste.

As droops the lilly at the blighting gale;
Or* crimson-spotted cowflip of the mead,

Whose tender stalk (alas! their stalk so frail)
Some hafty foot hath bruis'd with heedless tread :

On her left breast

A mole cinque-fpotted: like the crimson drops

I' th' bottom of a cowflip.

Shakespear's Cymbeline, A&t 3.