Fool! that with fuch dull arrows ftrove,
Or hop'd to reach a flying dove:

For you, that are in motion ftill,
Decline our force, and mock our skill,
Who, like Don Quixote, do advance
Against a windmill our vain lance.

Now will I wander through the air, Mount, make a ftoop at every fair, And, with a fancy unconfin'd, (As lawless as the fea or wind) Purfue you wherefoe'er you fly, And with your various thoughts comply.

The formal ftars do travel fo

As we their names and courses know;
And he that on their changes looks,
Would think them govern'd by our books:
But never were the clouds reduced
To any art: the motion ufed
By those free vapours, is so light,
So frequent, that the conquer'd fight
Despairs to find the rules that guide
Those gilded fhadows as they slide.
And, therefore, of the spacious air
Jove's royal confort had the care;
And by that power did once escape,
Declining bold Ixion's rape;

She, with her own resemblance graced
A fhining cloud, which he embraced.

Such was that image, so it smiled With feeming kindness, which beguiled Your Thyrfis lately, when he thought He had his fleeting Celia caught, 'Twas shaped like her, but for the fair, He fill'd his arms with yielding air.

A fate for which he grieves the lefs, Because the gods had like fuccefs. For in their story, one, we see, Pursues a nymph, and takes a tree: A fecond, with a lover's hafte Soon overtakes whom he had chas'd; But she that did a virgin feem, Poffefs'd, appears a wand'ring stream: For his fuppofed love, a third Lays greedy hold upon a bird, And ftands amaz'd to find his dear A wild inhabitant of air.

To these old tales fuch nymphs as you Give credit, and ftill make them new. The amorous, now, like wonders find In the swift changes of your mind,

But, Celia, if you apprehend The mufe of your incensed friend, Nor would that she record your blame, And make it live;-repeat the same.

1

Again deceive him, and again,

And then he swears he'll not complain :
For ftill to be deluded fo

Is all the pleasure lovers know;
Who, like good falconers, take delight
Not in the quarry, but the flight.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.

SEES

not my

love how time resumes

The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should tafte of their perfumes,

Yet muft they live but fome few hours:
Time what we forbear devours.

Had Helen, or the Egyptian queen,
Been ne'er fo thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.

Should fome malignant planet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless show'r,

Upon the autumn or the spring,
And spare us neither fruit nor flow'r,
Winter would not stay an hour.

Could the refolve of love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to fo divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my paffion.

OF ENGLISH VERSE.

POETS may boaft, as fafely vain,

Their works fhall with the world remain :

Both bound together, live or die,
The verses and the prophecy.

But who can hope his line should long
Laft in a daily changing tongue ?
While they are new, envy prevails,
And, as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art :
Time, if we use ill-chofen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets, that lasting marble feek,

Muft carve in Latin or in Greek:

We write in fand; our language grows, And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his fenfe can only boast,
The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defac'd his matchless strain,
And yet he did not fing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age, The fhining objects of his page, Hoping they should immortal prove, Rewarded with fuccefs his love.

This was the generous poet's scope,
And all an English pen can hope,
To make the fair approve his flame,
That can fo far extend their name.

Verfe, thus defign'd, has no ill fate,
If it arrive but at the date
Of fading beauty; if it prove
But as long-liv'd as the prefent love.

SONG.

WHILE I listen to thy voice,

Chloris, I feel my life decay:

That powerful noise

Calls my fleeting foul away.
Oh! fupprefs that magic found
Which deftroys without a wound.