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bard beauty bloom boſom breaſt bright charms cou'd crown dame Damon dear delight ev'ry face fair faith fame fate fear field fire firſt flame flow flow'r fond gentle give gold grace green grove hand hear heart hope hour kind kings leave lov'd maid mind muſe muſt native ne'er never nymph o'er once pain peace Perhaps plain play pleaſe pleaſure pow'r praiſe pride prove reign riſe roſe round ſcenes ſcorn ſee ſeen ſhade ſhall ſhare ſhe ſhould ſigh ſmile ſoft ſome ſong ſoul ſtill ſtore ſtream ſuch ſure ſweet tear tender thee theſe thine thoſe thou thought thro toils train tuneful Twas vain vale various virtue voice whoſe wild wind wiſh yield youth
Pagina 278 - And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ; And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's '.• wound; And marj'ram sweet, in shepherd's posie found; And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean, with mickle rare , perfume.
Pagina 275 - Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, As is the harebell that adorns the field ; And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays...
Pagina 52 - As— she may not be fond to resign. 1 have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed, But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
Pagina 285 - I how much I fear left pride it be ! But if that pride it be, which thus infpires, Beware, ye dames, with nice difcernment fee, Ye quench not too the fparks of nobler fires : Ah ! better far than all the mufes...
Pagina 43 - Dawson ! monarch of my heart ! Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part. ' Yet might sweet mercy find a place, And bring relief to Jemmy's woes ; O George ! without a prayer for thee My orisons should never close.
Pagina 50 - But a sweet-brier entwines it around, Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.
Pagina 55 - Tis his with mock passion to glow, Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, " How her face is as bright as the snow, And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labour the strain, With the notes of his charmer to vie; How they vary their accents in vain, Repine at her triumphs, and die.
Pagina 47 - What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah ! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel ; Alas ! I am faint and forlorn — • I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell.