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O flatt'ring promise of secure delight;

When will the lazy-pacing hours be o'er? That I may fly with rapture to thy sight,

And we shall meet again to part no more.


Tr’impression which this seal shall make,
The rougher hand of force may break;
Or jealous time, with slow decay,
May all its traces wear away;
But neither time nor force combin'd,
Shall tear thy image from my mind;
Nor shall the sweet impression fade
Which Chloe's thousand charms have made;
For spite of time, or force, or art,
'Tis seald for ever on my heart.


Ye shepherds so careless and gay,

Who sport with the nymphs of the plain, Take heed lest


frolic away The peace you can never regaid. Let not Folly your bosoms annoy;

And of Love, the dear mischief, beware: You may

think 'tis all sunshine and joy, -I know 'tis o'ershadow'd with care.

Love's morning how blithsome it shines,

With an aspect deceitfully fair ; Its day oft in sorrow declines,

And it sets in the night of despair. Hope paints the gay scene to the sight,

While fancy her visions bestows, And gilds ev'ry dream with delight,

But to wake us to sensible woes.

How hard is my lot to complain

Of a nymph whom I yet must adore, Though she love not her shepherd again,

Her DAMON must love her the more.

For it was not the pride of her sex,

That treated his vows with disdain, For it was not the pleasure to vex,

That made her delude her fond swain.

'Twas His, the fair nymph to behold,

He hop'd-and he rashly beliey'd. "Twas Her's to be fatally cold;

-He lov'd—and was fondly deceiv'd: For such is of lovers the doom,

While passions their reason beguile, "Tis warrant enough to presume,

If they catch but a look or a smile.

Yet surely my PHYLLIS would seem

To prize me most shepherds above; But that might be only esteem,

While I foolishly constru'd it love. Yet others, like Damon, believ'd

The nymph might have favour'd her swain, And others, like Him, were deceiv'd,

Like Him, though they cannot complain.

Of PHYLLIS was always my song,

For she was my pride and my care ; And the folks, as we wander'd along,

Wou'd call us the conjugal pair,

They mark'd how I walk'd at her side,

How her hand to my bosom I prest, Each tender endearment I try'd,

And I thought none was ever so blest.

But now the delusion is o'er,

These day-dreams of pleasure are fled, Now Her Damon is pleasing no more,

And the hopes of her shepherd are dead. May he that my Fair shall obtain,

May He, as thy Damon, be true; Or haply thou'lt think of that swain,

Who bids thee, dear Maiden, adieu.



F CHLOE seek one verse of mine
I call not on the tuneful Nine

With useless Invocation;
Enough for Me that She should ask;
I fly with pleasure to the Task,

And Her's the Inspiration,

When Poets sung in ancient Days,
The Muses that inspir'd their Lays,

Of whom there such Parade is;
Their Deities, let Pride confess,
Were nothing more, and nothing less,

Than earth-born mortal Ladies.

Did any nymph her subject chuse?
She strait commenc'd inspiring MUSE;

And every Maid, of lovely Face,
That struck the Heart of wounded Swain,
Exalted to your starry Plain,

Was register’à a Grace.

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