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TO IANTHE.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

BELOV'D, each anxious fear repel;

Think not that aught our hearts can sever: Heaven knows I love thee passing well;

And knows I less can love thee never.

My soul a transient flame shall scorn:

To thee I've sworn no short-lived duty, Like theirs whose passion beauty-born,

Still sickens and expires with beauty.

Sorrow and Pain those locks may rend
That round thy brows so graceful cluster;

Dark hues may with thy lilies blend;
And dim thine eye's expressive lustre.

Alas! 'tis true that I may see

Their rugged hands thy graces ruin,

And sad indeed, my soul will be,

With sighs their fatal progress viewing!

But thou no altered love shalt find,
Though every outward charm be flying:
More bright will shine thy angel-mind,
The powers of Pain and Grief defying!

ON A FOP TURNED EPICURE.

SAVING, you say, Jack Selfish grows,
Because he's seen in shabbier clothes,
But you mistake I tell ye :-
A selfish spendthrift still is Jack,
And that which lately vamp'd his back,
Now goes to gorge his belly.

ODE ON TIME.

BY MISS SEWARD.

O'ER him, by health and fortune crown'd,
Time steals with step so fleet,
Scarce are his faint impressions found
On the gay forehead's open round,
Or shining orb of sight.

Smooth as the young Camilla, borne
With printless step and fleet

O'er plenteous fields of ripen'd corn,
Whose bending stalks the gales of morn
Bow on the passing feet.

But o'er the dim Form, press'd by woes,
He treads with heavy pace,

Sweeps his broad scythe, and as he goes
Down falls the summer pride, and shows
Worn Nature's furrow'd face.

TO CHLOE ANGRY.

BY OSMUND BEAUVOIR, LL.D.

NOV. 8, 1742.

FORGIVE, injur'd fair, this attempt to remove
The disdain, which so cruelly reigns in your breast:
What caus'd my offence was unheeding rash love;
But reason forbids, while you're angry, my rest.
Wit or beauty alone, oft compel us, in spite

Of our wisdom, to reason to quit our pretences; But when Stella and Flavia in one Fair unite,

How the devil can any man keep in his senses?

Did you know with what sorrow, with sighs how sincere I've lamented my crime, you would sure be more tender.

Ah! Chloe, that judge must be thought too severe Who condemns for chance-medley th' unhappy

offender.

Yet alas! such my judge, and so hard are her laws; Must I ne'er then behold the fair charmer again? Ne'er gaze on those eyes, and ne'er hang on that voice? Would to God I had ne'er known the use of a pen!

Did you e'er the quick whirlwind of passions endure, That distracts parting lovers, you'd quit that disdain! Had your breast ever felt what I feel, you would sure What you blame in my conduct indulge to my pain! To misconstrue an error thus into abuse,

Oh Chloe, is sure something more than unkind; For the slips lovers make may well plead for excuse, Since the God, who directs all their actions, is blind,

ON THE DEATH OF DR. EVANS

OF KNIGHTSBRIDGE.

EVANS, of worm-destroying note

With little folks who breed 'em,
Has all his life been pois'ning worms,
And now's consign'd to feed 'em.

Thus, 'twixt our Doctor and his foes,
Accounts are pretty trim-
For many years he liv'd by those,
And now they live on him.

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