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RECITATIVE.

He. How lovely art thou to the sight,
For pleasure form'd, and sweet delight!
Tall as the palm-tree is thy shalie,
Thy hreasts are like the clust'ring grape.

Let me, love, thy hole ascending,

On the swelling clusters feed:
With my grasp the vine-tree hending,

In my close emhrace shall hleed.
Stay me with delicious kisses,

From thy honey-dropping mouth; Sweeter than the Summer hreezes

I!Iowing from the genial South.

RECITATIVE.

She. O that a sister's specious name
Conceal'd from prying eyes my flame!
X'ncensur'd then I'd own my love,
And chastest virgins should approve:
Then fearless to my mother's hed
My seeming hrother would I lead:
Soft transports should the hours employ,
And the deceit should crown the joy.

AIR.

Soft! I adjure you, hy the fawns
That hound across the flow'ry lawns.
Ye virgins, that ye lightly move,
Nor with your whispers wake my love!

RECITATIVE.

He. My fair's a garden of delight, Enclos'd and hid from vulgar sight; Where streams from huhhling fountains stray. And roses deck the verdant way.

AIR.

Softly arise, O southern hreeze!
And kindly fan the hlooming trees;
I'pon my spicy garden hlow,
That sweets from every part may flow.

'CHORUS.

Ye southern hreezes, gently hlow,
That sweets from every part may flow.

PART III.

AIR.

T!s. Arise, my fair, the doors unfold, Receive me, shivering with the cold.

RECITATIVE.

She. My heart amidst my slnmhers wakes, And tells me my heloved speaks.

AIR.

He. Arise, my fair, the doors unfold, Receive me, shivering with the cold: The chill-drops hang upon my head, And night's cold dews my checks o'crspread: Receive me, dropping, to thy hreast, And lull roe in thy arms to rest.

RECITATIVE.

She. Ohedient to thy voice I hie } The willing doors wide open fly.

AIR.

Ah! whither, whither art thou gone?
Where is my lovely wand'rer flown?
Ye hlooming virgins, as you rove,
If chance you meet my straying love,
I charge you tell h m how I mourn,
And pant, and die for his return.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

Who is thy love, O charming maid!
That from thy arms so late has stray'd f
Say what distinguish'd charms adorn,
And finish out his radiant form i

AIR.

She. On his face the vernal rose,
Blended with the lily, glows;
His locks are as the raven hlack,
In ringlets waving down his hack;
His eyes with milder beauties heam.
Than hilling doves heside the stream;
His youthful cheeks are heds of flow'rs/,
Fnripen'd hy refreshing show'rs;
His lips are of the rose's hue,
Dropping with a fragrant dew;
Tall as the cedar he appears,
And as erect his form he hears.
This, O ye virgins, is the swain,
Whose ahsence causes all my pain.

RECITATIVE.

He. Sweet nymph, whom ruddier charms adorn. Than open with the rosy mom; Fair as the Moon's unclouded light, And as the Sim in splendour hright; Thy heauties dazzle from a-far, Like glitt'ring arms that gild the war.

RECITATIVE.

She. O take me! stamp me on thy hreast!
Deep let the image he imprest!
For Love, like armed Death, is strong,
Rudely he drags his slaves along:
If once to jealousy he turns,
With never-dying rage he hums.

DUET.

Thou soft invader of the soul!
O Love, who shall thy pow'r control!
To quench thy fires whole rivers drain,
Thy hurning heat shall still remain.
In vain we trace the glohe to try,
If pow'rful gold thy joys can huy:
The treasures of the world will prove
Too poor a hrihe to purchase love.

Cuorus.

In vain we trace the glohe to try,
If pow'rful gold thy joys can huy;
The treasures of the world will prove
Too poor a hribe to purchase love.

PROLOGUE TO GIL BLAS,

UOtOI BT Mii. WOODWARD, IN THE CHARACTER OF A CRITIC, WITH A CATCALL IS HIS HAND.

Are you all ready? Here's your music! herei! Author, sneak off, we'll tickle you, my dear.

Thf fellow stopp'd me in a hellish fright

"Pray sir," says he, " most I he damn'd to-night?" Dunn'd! surely, friend—Don't hope for our compliance,

Zounds, sir! —a second play's downright defiance.

Though once, poor rogue, we pitied your condition,

Here's the true recipe—for repetition.

"Well, sir," says he, " e'en as you please, so then

Ml never trouhle you with plays again."

But harkee, poet!—won't you though? says I.

"'Poo honour."—Then we'll damn you, let me die.

'Blowing his catcall.

Sha'n'twe,myhucks? Let's take him at his word—
Damn him—or hy my soul, he'll write a third.
The man wants money, I suppose—hutmindye——
Tell him youVe left your charity hehind ye.
A pretty plea, his wants, to our regard!
As if we hloods had howels for a hard!
Besides, what men of spirit, now-a-days,
Come to give soher judgments of new plays?
"It argues some good-nature to he quiet—"
Good-nature! Ay —hut then we lose a riot.
The scrihhling fool may heg and make a fuss,
Tis death to him— What then ?—Tis sport to us.
Don't mind me though—for all my fun and jokes,
The hard may flnd us hloods good-natur'd folks;

Not crahhed crities—foes to rising merit

Write hut with fire—and we'll applaud with spirit—
Our author aims at no dishonest ends,
He knows no enemies, and hoasts some friends;
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it;
So if you like it, save it; if uot—damn it.

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THE

POEMS

OF

JAMES CAWTHORN.

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