IN

IMITATION

O F

ANACREON.

L

ET 'em Cenfure, what care I?

The Herd of Criticks I defie.

Let the Wretches know I write

Regardless of their Grace, or Spight.
No, no, the Fair, the Gay, the Young,
Govern the Numbers of my Song;
All that They approve is fweet,
And all is Senfe that They repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire; Venus! String thy Servant's Lyre: Love shall be my endless Theme; Pleasure shall triumph over Fame: And when these Maxims I décline, Apollo, may thy Fate be mine:

May I grafp at empty Praise

And lose the Nymph, to gain the Bays.

An

An O D E.

HE Merchant, to fecure his Treasure,

T Conveys it in a borrow'd Name:

Euphelia ferves to grace my Measure;
But Cloe is my real Flame.

My fofteft Verfe, my darling Lyre,
Upon Euphelia's Toylet lay;
When Cloe noted her Defire,

That I should fing, that I should play.

My Lyre I tune, my Voice I raise;
But with my Numbers mix my Sighs:
And, whilst I fing Euphelia's Praise,
I fix my Soul on Cloe's Eyes.

Fair Cloe blufh'd, Euphelia frown'd;
I fung and gaz'd, I play'd and trembl❜d;
And Venus to the Loves around

Remark'd, how ill we all diffembl❜d.

I

A SON G.

F Wine and Musick have the Pow'r,

To ease the Sickness of the Soul;
Let Phabus ev'ry String explore,
And Bacchus fill the fprightly Bowl,
Let them their friendly Aid imploy,
To make my Cloe's Abfence light;
And feek for Pleasure, to destroy
The Sorrows of this live-long Night.

But She to Morrow will return;
Venus, be Thou to Morrow great;
Thy Myrtles ftrow, thy Odours burn;
And meet thy Fav'rite Nymph in State,
Kind Goddess, to no other Pow'rs

Let us to Morrow's Bleffings own;

Thy darling Loves fhall guide the Hours;
And all the Day be Thine alone.

CELIA

CELIA

TO

DA

MON

Atque in Amore mala hæc proprio, fumméque fecundo Inveniuntur

Lucret. Lib. 4.

HAT can I fay, what Arguments can prove
My Truth, what Colours can defcribe my

WH

If its Excess and Fury be not known

In what thy Celia has already done?

(Love,

Thy Infant Flames, whilst yet they were conceal'd In tim❜rous Doubts, with Pity I beheld;

With eafie Smiles difpell'd the filent Fear,
That durft not tell me, what I dy'd to hear:
In vain I ftrove to check my growing Flame;
Or fhelter Paffion under Friendship's Name:
You faw my Heart, how it my Tongue bely'd;
And when you prefs'd, how faintly I deny'd-

E'er Guardian Thought cou'd bring its scatter'd Aid, E'er Reafon cou'd fupport the doubting Maid; My Soul furpriz'd, and from its felf disjoin'd, Left all Referve, and all the Sex behind: From your Command her Motions fhe receiv'd; And not for me, but you, fhe breath'd and liv'd.

But ever bleft be Cytherea's Shrine, And Fires Eternal on her Altars fhine, Since thy dear Breaft has felt an equal Wound; Since in thy Kindness my Defires are crown'd. By thy each Look, and Thought, and Care, 'tis fhown, Thy Joys are center'd All in me Alone;

And fure I am thou wou'dft not change this Hour, For all the White ones Fate has in its Pow'r.

Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to Excefs,
Yet thus receiving and returning Bliss,

In this great Moment, in this Golden Now,
When ev'ry Trace of What, or When, or How
Shou'd from my Soul by raging Love be torn,
And far on fwelling Seas of Rapture born;