Sure in those eyes I love so well, And wished so long to see, Anger I thought could never dwell, Or anger aimed at me.

No bold offence of mine I knew

Should e'er provoke your hate; And, early taught to think you true, Still hoped a gentler fate.

SEE where the Thames, the purest

stream

That wavers to the noon-day beam,
Divides the vale below;
While like a vein of liquid ore
His waves enrich the happy shore,
Still shining as they flow!
Nor yet, my Delia, to the main
Runs the sweet tide without a stain,
Unsullied as it seems;

The nymphs of many a sable flood
Deform with streaks of oozy mud

The bosom of the Thames. Some idle rivulets, that feed And suckle every noisome weed, A sandy bottom boast; For ever bright, for ever clear, The trifling shallow rills appear In their own channel lost. Thus fares it with the human soul, Where copious floods of passion roll, By genuine love supplied;

How blest the youth whom Fate ordains A kind relief from all his pains,

In some admired fair;
Whose tenderest wishes find expressed
Their own resemblance in her breast,
Exactly copied there!

What good soe'er the gods dispense,
The enjoyment of its influence

Still on her love depends;

Her love, the shield that guards his heart,

Or wards the blow, or blunts the dart
That peevish Fortune sends.
Thus, Delia, while thy love endures,
The flame my happy breast secures
From Fortune's fickle power;

With kindness bless the present hour,
Or oh! we meet in vain!
What can we do in absence more
Than suffer and complain?
Fated to ills beyond redress,

We must endure our woe; The days allowed us to possess, 'Tis madness to forego.

Fair in itself the current shows,
But ah! a thousand anxious woes
Pollute the noble tide.

These are emotions known to few;
For where at most a vapoury dew
Surrounds the tranquil heart,
There as the triflers never prove
The glad excess of real love,

They never prove the smart.
Oh then, my life, at last relent!
Though cruel the reproach I sent,
My sorrow was unfeigned :
Your passion, had I loved you not,
You might have scorned, renounced,
forgot,

And I had ne'er complained. While you indulge a groundless fear, The imaginary woes you bear

Are real woes to me :

But thou art kind, and good thou art, Nor wilt, by wronging thine own heart, Unjustly punish me.

Change as she list, she may increase,
But not abate my happiness,

Confirmed by thee before.

Thus while I share her smiles with thee,
Welcome, my love, shall ever be

The favours she bestows;
Yet not on those I found my bliss,
But in the noble ecstasies

The faithful bosom knows. And when she prunes her wings for flight,

And flutters nimbly from my sight,
Contented I resign

Whate'er she gave; thy love alone
I can securely call my own,
Happy while that is mine.

'Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir and single
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,

When God and you know I have neither;

Or such, as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.

'Tis not with either of these views
That I presume to address the Muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti

(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty),
That, with a black infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense:
The fierce banditti which I mean,
Are gloomy thoughts led on by Spleen.
Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt which justly became due
The moment when I heard from you:
And you might grumble, crony mine,
If paid in any other coin;

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,
(I would say twenty sheets of prose,)
Can ne'er be deemed worth half so much
As one of gold, and yours was such.
Thus the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled;
And cannot see, though few see better,
How I shall hammer out a letter.

First, for a thought-since all agree—
A thought-I have it-let me see-
'Tis gone again-plague on't! I thought
I had it but I have it not.

Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son,
That useful thing, her needle, gone,
Rake well the cinders, sweep the floor,
And sift the dust behind the door;
While eager Hodge beholds the prize
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;
And Gammer finds it on her knees
In every shining straw she sees.
This simile were apt enough,

But I've another, critic-proof.
The virtuoso thus at noon,
Broiling beneath a July sun,
The gilded butterfly pursues

O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and

mews,

And after many a vain essay
To captivate the tempting prey,
Gives him at length the lucky pat,
And has him safe beneath his hat:
Then lifts it gently from the ground;
But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;
Culprit his liberty regains;
Flits out of sight and mocks his pains.
The sense was dark, 'twas therefore fit
With simile to illustrate it;
But as too much obscures the sight,
As often as too little light,
We have our similes cut short,
For matters of more grave import.
That Matthew's numbers run with ease
Each man of common sense agrees;
All men of common sense allow,
That Robert's lines are easy too;
Where then the preference shall we
place,

Or how do justice in this case?
"Matthew," says Fame, "with endless
pains

Smoothed and refined the meanest

strains,

Nor suffered one ill-chosen rhyme
To escape him at the idlest time;
And thus o'er all a lustre cast,
That while the language lives shall
last."

"An't please your ladyship," quoth I,
(For 'tis my business to reply,)
"Sure so much labour, so much toil,
Bespeak at least a stubborn soil.
Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,
Who both write well and write full speed;
Who throw their Helicon about
As freely as a conduit spout!
Friend Robert, thus like chien sçavant,
Lets fall a poem en passant,
Nor needs his genuine ore refine;
'Tis ready polished from the mine."