Lydia, fickle and fair,
Lyce, the faded of hue,
Lalage, Pholoi...there!
Hark how the l's ripple through.
These were the beauties that drew,
These lilting and lyrical dames!
Leuconoi, Glycera ... Pooh!
Why, Horace, they're nothing but names!

Pyrrha, the golden of hair,
Lyde the lyrist, the shrew
Myrtale ... well, I declare!
What in the world shall we do

Brag not a Golden Rain O Jove ; we see
Cupid descends in Showers as well as thee.

I sent a Sigh unto my Blest ones Eare,
Which lost it's way, and never did come there;
I hastned after, lest some other Fair
Should mildly entertain this travelling Aire:
Each flowry Garden I did search, for fear
It might mistake a Lilly for her Eare;
And having there took lodging, might still dwell
Hous'd in the Concave of a Christall Bell.
At last, one frosty morning I did spy
This subtile Wand'rer journeying in the Sky;
At sight of me it trembled, then drew neer,
Then grieving fell, and dropt into a Tear:

Who can hide fire? If't be uncover'd, Light,
If cover'd, Smoake betraies it to the sight:
Love is that fire, which still some sign affords,
If hid, the are Sighs; If open, they are Words.

Young William once the blithest of the swains,
That grac'd the flow'ry bank, or trode the plains;
Not rustic, but from affectation free,
Still courteous, kind, and affable was he.
Of gentlest manners, ever form'd to please;
His mind unruffl'd, ever blest with ease;
His mien engaging, sweet beyond compare;
His breath delicious as the fragrant air;
His nature prone, attractive sweets t' impart,
Good without shew, and lovely without art.

Each nymph him priz'd, and oft they sought, in vain,

I looked! I loved! And passion burned
With violence Vesuvian
Until the fatal day I learned
He was a married man!

The good ones seldom trot alone;
They jog in Hymen's silken span.
Ah, foolish me! I might have known
He was a married man.

Oh, who can fathom my distress!
Incredulous, I murmured, " Can
This thing be true? " Ah, yes; ah, yes —
He was a married man!

A Song

False, ungrateful traitor!
To wrong poor Celia so,
And leave so sweet a creature
To misery and woe.

Think not the gods forget you
They but retard your fate;
When Celia finds their pity,
Then shalt thou feel their hate

A Song

Should the nymph I love disdain me,
And strive to give despair,
All her arts shall never pain me,
For I'll seek a kinder fair.

Some think it mighty treasure
A stubborn heart to gain;
But theirs be all the pleasure,
For 'tis not worth the pain.

A Sonnet

I'll range around the shady bowers,
And gather all the sweetest flowers;
I'll strip the garden and the grave
To make a garland for my love.

When in the sultry heat of day
My thirsty nymph does panting lay,
I'll hasten to the river's brink,
And drain the floods, but she shall drink.

At night, to rest her weary head,
I'll make my love a grassy bed;
And with green boughs I'll form a shade,
That nothing may her rest invade.

And while dissolved in sleep she lies
Myself shall never close these eyes,

A Sonnet

Tho' cruel you seem to my pain,
And hate me because I am true,
Yet, Phyllis, you love a false swain,
Who has other nymphs in his view:
Enjoyment's a trifle to him,
To me what a heav'n would it be.
To him but a woman you seem,
But, Ah! you're an angel to me.

Those lips which he touches in haste,
To them I for ever could grow;
Still clinging around that dear waist
Which he spans as beside him you go.
That hand, like a lilly so white,
Which over his shoulder you lay,
My bosom could warm it all night,