THE SECRETARY. [Written at the Hague, in the year 1696.] While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, On my left hand my Horace, a Nymph on my right; Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee : This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, I drive on my car in processional state. So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode; To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say, That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD. Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; For, while she makes her silk-worms beds She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends; She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love, When she begins to comprehend it. A SONG. In vain you tell your parting lover, That bear me far from what I love? Be gentle, and in pity choose TO A LADY: she refusing to continue a dispute with me, and leaving me in the argument. Spare, generous Victor, spare the slave, In the dispute whate'er I said, My heart was by my tongue belied; You, far from danger as from fear, For seldom your opinions err; Your eyes are always in the rigui Why, fair one, would you not rely On Reason's force with Beauty's joined? Could I their prevalence deny, I must at once be deaf and blind. Alas! not hoping to subdue, I only to the fight aspired: But she, howe'er of victory sure, Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight; And triumphs, when she seems to yield. So when the Parthian turned his steed, And from the hostile camp withdrew; With cruel skill the backward reed He sent; and as he fled, he slew. AN ODE. The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Chloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes. Fair Chloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: Remarked, how ill we all dissembled. CUPID MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summer's day, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart : I faint! I die! the goddess cried; Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. I took you for your likeness, Chloe. A BETTER ANSWER1. Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face! |