(Bishop of Chichester.]


LL me not bow fair she is,
I have no mind to hear
The story of that distant bliss

I never shall come near :
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate
From whence no triumph ever came,

But to repent too late :
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence doat myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,

Nor will thy justice blame, So that thou wilt not envy me

The glory of my flame : Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies, In that it falls her sacrifice.



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,

Let honour be my guide;
And where frail nature seems inclin'd,

There place a guard of pride.

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.


Gently touch the warbling lyre,

Chloe seems inclin’d to rest,
Fill her soul with fond desire;

Softest notes will soothe her best.
Pleasing dreams assist in love ;
Let them all propitious prove.

On the mossy bank she lies,

Nature's verdant velvet bed,
Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,

Forming pillows for her head.
Zephyrs waft their odours round,
And indulging whispers sound.


Ask if yon damask rose be sweet,

That scents the ambient air ; Then ask each shepherd that you meet

If dear Susanna's fair,

Say, will the vulture leave his prey,

And warble through the grove ;
Bid wanton linnets quit their spray,

Then doubt thy shepherd's love.

The spoils of war let heroes share,

Let pride in splendor shine ;
Ye bards, unenvied laurels wear,

Be fair Susanna mine.



you taste the noontide air,
To yon fragrant bower repair,
Where woven with the poplar bough,
The mantling vine will shelter you.

Down each side a river flows,
Tinkling, murmuring, as it goes
Lightly o'er the mossy ground,
Sultry Phæbus scorching round.

Round, the languid herds and sheep
Stretch'd o'er sunny hillocks sleep.
While on the hyacinth and rose,
The fair does all alone repose.

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All alone and in her arms
Your breast may beat to love's alarms,
Till bless'd, and blessing you shall own
The joys of love are joys alone.


A how sweet it is to love !

Ah, how gay is young desire !
And what pleasing pains we prove,

When we first approach love's fire;
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs, which are from lovers blown,

Do but gently heave the heart: Ev’n the tears they shed alone,

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart; Lovers, when they lose their breath,


Bleed away

in easy

Love and time with rev'rence use,

Treat 'em like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse,

Which, in youth, sincere they send,
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

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