The COMPLAINT of a LOVER.

BY MISS ANNE KILLIGREW.

SEEST thou younder craggy rock,

Whofe head o'er-looks the fwelling main,
Where never fhepherd fed his flock,
Or careful peafant fow'd his grain?

No wholesome herb grows on the fame,
Or bird of day will on it reft;
'Tis barren as the hopeless flame,
That fcorches my tormented breast.

Deep underneath a cave does lie,

Th' entrance hid with dismal yew, Where Phoebus never fhew'd his eye, Or chearful day yet pierced through.

In that dark melancholy cell,

(Retreat and follace to my woe) Love, sad dispair, and I, do dwell,

The fprings from whence my griefs do flow.

Treacherous love that did appear,

(When he at first approach't my heart)

* Born 1660; dyed 1685.

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Dreft in a garb far from fevere,

Or threatning ought of future fmart.

So innocent thofe charms then feem'd,
When Rofalinda first I spy'd,

Ah! who would them have deadly deem'd ?
But flow'rs do often ferpents hide.

Beneath those sweets concealed lay,
To love the cruel foe, difdain,
With which (alas) she does repay
My conftant and deferving pain.

When I in tears have spent the night,

With fighs I ufher in the fun,

Who never faw a fadder fight

In all the courfes he has run.

Sleep, which to others ease does prove,
Comes unto me, alas, in vain :

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For in my dreams I am in love,

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And in them too fhe does difdain.

Sometimes, t' amufe my forrow, I

Unto the hollow rocks repair,

And loudly to the eccho cry,

Ah! gentle nimph, come ease my care.

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Thou who, times paft, a lover wer't,
Ah! pity me, who now am so,
And by a fenfe of thine own smart,
Alleviate my mighty woe.

Come flatter then, or chide my grief;

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Catch my laft words, and call me fool;

Or fay fhe loves for my relief;

My paffion either footh, or school.

DESPAIR.

BY MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE.*

OH! lead me to some solitary gloom,

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Where no enliv'ning beams, nor chearful echoes

come;

But filent all, and dufky let it be,
Remote and unfrequented, but by me;
Mysterious, close, and fullen as that grief,
Which leads me to its covert for relief.
Far from the busy world's detefted noise,
Its wretched pleafures, and diftracted joys;
Far from the jolly fools, who laugh, and play,
And dance, and fing, impertinently gay,
Their fhort, inestimable hours away;
Far from the ftudious follies of the great,
The tiresome farce of ceremonious state:
There, in a melting, folemn, dying strain,
Let me, all day, upon my lyre complain,
And wind up all its foft, harmonious strings,
To noble, ferious, melancholy things.
And let no human foot, but mine, e'er trace
The close receffes of the facred place :
Nor let a bird of chearful note come near,

To whisper out his airy raptures here.
Only the penfive fongftrefs of the grove,
Let her, by mine, her mournful notes improve;

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↑ Born 1674; dyed 1739. Her maiden name was Singer.

While drooping winds among the branches figh, And fluggish waters heavily roll by.

Here, to my fatal forrows let me give

The fhort remaining hours I have to live.
'Then, with a fullen deep-fetch'd groan, expire,
And to the grave's dark folitude retire.

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