My lyre to tender accents strung, I tell each slight, each scorn and wrong, Review past scenes, and scorn them all. Superior thoughts my mind engage, WHY heaves my fond bosom? ah what can it mean! Why flutters my heart that was once so serene? Why this sighing and trembling when Daphne is near? Or why, when she's absent, this sorrow and fear? Y Forever, methinks, I with wonder could trace Untainted by folly, unsullied by pride, There native good humour and virtue reside. TELL me, Damon, dost thou languish Flying, dost thou still pursue her ? If thy heart such passion prove, Does each rival's merit grieve thee? Canst thou view each bright perfection Then in love if there be pleasure, Venus shall confer the treasure On her true devoted swain. Venus shall thy suit approve; Shepherd, thou dost truly love. L [KING.] [Bishop of Chichester.] TELL The story of that distant bliss And tell me not how fond I am But to repent too late : There is some hope ere long I may I ask no pity, Love, from thee, The glory of my flame : Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice. [MRS. TAYLOR.] YE E virgin powers! defend my heart From amorous looks and smiles, From saucy love, or nicer art, Which most our sex beguiles. From sighs, from vows, from awful fears, That do to pity move; From speaking-silence, and from tears, Those springs that water love. But, if through passion I grow blind, And where frail nature seems inclin'd, A heart whose flames are seen, tho' pure, Needs ev'ry virtue's aid, And those who think themselves secure, The soonest are betray'd. |