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SONG.

1.

Y

E little Loves, that round her wait,
To bring me Tidings of my Fate;

As CELIA on, her Pillow lies,

Ah, gently Whisper, STREPHON dies

II.

If this will not her Pity move,

And the proud Fair difdains to love;

Smile, and fay, 'tis all a Lye,

And haughty STREPHON fcorns to dye

Upon

Upon feeing a LADY Embroider.

S in the Web Amynta tries,

From Nature's felf, to win the Prize;
On her foft Limbs fhe means to wear
The blooming Work her Hands prepare.
What Art and Fancy can bestow,
Those Silken Sprigs already Show;
When to her lovely Wafte they cleave,
Their Sweetness too they'll foon receive.
Yet ftrange! the Fair One fhould incline,
With fuch prepoft'rous Skill to fhine
In Summer's Pride, and Flow'rs dreft,
Whilft Ice and Winter's in her Breast.

The CHOICE.

"O, I fhan't envy him, whoe'er he be,

N°

That ftands upon the Battlements of State;

Stand there who will for me,

I'd rather be Secure than Great

In being fo high, the Pleasure is but fmall.

But great the Ruin if I chance to fall.

Let me in fome filent Shade fecurely lie,
Happy in Leifure and Obfcurity;

Whilft others place their Joys

In Popularity and Noife;

Let my foft Minutes glide ferenely on,

Like fubterranean Streams unheard, unknown.

Thus, when my Days are all in Silence past, .
A good plain Countryman I'll die at laft;
Death cannot chufe but be

To him a mighty Mifery,

Who to the World was popularly known,
And dies a Stranger to himself alone..

1

TRAN

HE Queen, who gives foft Wifhes Birth,
The youthful GOD of Wine and Mirth,
And wanton, Libertine defire,

My Mind afresh with Love inspire.

Bright Glycera revives the Smart,

The Flame that kindles in my Heart,

The

1

The Polish of her Neck out-fhines

The Marble of the Parian Mines:
Her girlish Wantonness has Charms,
And with her froward Play fhe warms.
Doating on her Face, I die;

A Face too dazzling for the Eye.
All Venus rages in my Breaft,

And leaves her Cyprian Groves unblest :
Nor will fhe fuffer me to write

Of hardy Scythians put to Flight;
Or Death from Parthian Quivers fent,
Or Things to love not pertinent.
Here, Boy, to cruel Venus, here
Of living Turf an Altar rear :
Sweet Herbs, and Frankincenfe beftow,
And let the Winy Off'ring flow:-

These Rites the GODDESS will appease,

And give my frantick Bosome case.