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Or should I rather, if I cou'd, Talk of words little understood, Centric, eccentric, epicycle, Fine words the vulgar ears to tickle! A vacuum, plenum, gravitation, And other words of like relation, Which may agree with studious men, But hurt my teeth, and gag my pen; Things of such grave and serious kind Puzzle my head and plague my mind; Besides in writing to a friend A man may any nonsense send, And the chief merit to impart, The honest feelings of his heart.

AN

IMITATION

FROM THE SPECTATOR.

A MONTH hath rolld its lazy hours away,

Since Delia's presence bless'd her longing swain: How cou'd he brook the sluggish time's delay,

What charm cou'd soften such an age of pain ?

One fond reflection still his bosom chear'd,

And sooth'd the torments of a lover's care, 'Twas that for Delia's self the bow'r he rear'd,

And Fancy plac'd the nymph already there.

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O come, dear maid, and with a gentle smile,

Such as lights up my lovely fair one's face, Survey the product of thy shepherd's toil,

Nor rob the villa of the villa's grace.

Whate'er improvements strike thy curious sight,

Thy taste hath form’d-let me not call it mine, Since when I muse on thee, and feed delight,

I form no thought that is not wholly thine.

Tl’ apartments destin'd for my charmer's use,

(For love in trifles is conspicuous shewn) Can scarce an object to thy view produce,

But bears the dear resemblance of thine own.

And trust me, love, I could almost believe

This little spot the mansion of my fair;
But that awak'd from fancy's dreams I grieve,

To find its proper owner is not there.

Oh! I could doat upon the rural scene,

Its prospect over bill and champaign wide, But that it marks the tedious way between,

That parts thy Damon from his promis'd Bride.

The gardens now put forth their blossoms sweet,

In Nature's flow'ry mantle gaily drest, The close-trimm'd hedge, and circling border neat,

All ask my Delia for their dearest guest.

The lily pale, the purple-blushing rose,

In this fair spot their mingled beauties join; The woodbine here its curling tendrils throws

In wreaths fantastic round the mantling vine. The branching arbour here for lovers made,

For dalliance met, or song, or amorous tale, Shall oft protect us with its cooling shade,

When sultry Phæbus burns the lovely vale.

'Tis all another paradise around,

And, trust me, so it would appear to me, Like the first man were I not lonely found,

And but half blest, my Delia, wanting thee.

For two, but two, I've form'd a lovely walk, ; And I have call'd it by my fair 'one's name'; Here blest with thee, t'enjoy thy pleasing talk,

While fools and madmen bow the knee to fame.

The rustic path already have I try'd,

Oft at the sinking of the setting day; And while, my love, I thought thee by my side,

With careful steps have worn its edge away.

With thee I've held discourse, how passing sweet!

While fancy brought thee to my raptur'd dream, With thee have prattled in my lone retreat,

Avd talk'd down suns, on love's delicious theme.. Oft as I wander through the rustic crowd,

Musing with downcast look, and folded arms, They stare with wonder, when I rave aloud,

And dwell with rapture on thy artless charms.

They call me mad, and oft with finger rude

Point at me, leering, as I heedless pass ; Yet Colin knows the cause, for love is shrewd,

And the young shepherd courts the farmer's lass.

Among the fruits that grace this little seat,

And all around their clust'ring foliage spread, Here mayst thou cull the peach, or nect'rine sweet, And pluck the strawberry from its native bed.

And all along the river's verdant side,

I've planted elms, which rise in even row; And Aling their lofty branches far and wide,

Which float reflected in the lake below.

Since I've been absent from my lovely fair,

Imagination forms a thousand schemes, For ()! my Delia, thou art all my care,

And all with me is love and golden dreams,

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