To Mrs. Laura Dillon, now Lady Falkland.

Bacchus! to arms, the enemy's at hand,
Laura appears; stand to your glasses, stand;
The god of Love the god of Wine defies,
Behold him in full march in Laura's eyes:
Bacchus! to arms; and, to resist the dart,
Each with a faithful brimmer guard his heart.
Fly, Bacchus! fly, there's treason in the cup,
For Love comes pouring in with ev'ry drop;
I feel him in my heart, my blood, my brain;
Fly, Bacchus! fly, resistence is in vain,
Or craving quarter: crown a friendly bowl

I.

A plague take all such grumbling elves,
If they will rail, so be it;
Because we're happier than themselves,
They can't endure to see it.

For me, I never shall repine,
Let whate'er fate o'ertake us;
For love and Annette shall be mine,
Though all the world forsake us.

II.

Then, dear Annette, regard them not,
The hours shall pass on gaily,

A kernel from an apple's core
One day on either cheek I wore,
Lubin was plac'd on my right cheek,
That on my left did Hodge bespeak;

Hodge in an instant dropt to ground,
Sure token that his love's unsound,
But Lubin nothing could remove,
Sure token his is constant love.

II.

Last May I sought to find a snail,
That might my lover's name reveal,
Which finding, home I quickly sped,
And on the hearth the embers spread;

When, if my letters I can tell,

Say not you love, unlesse you do,
For lying will not profit you. Ladie:
Sir, I do love with love most true:
I will not love, unlesse't be you. Ra:
You say I lie, I say you lie, choose you whether,
But if we both lie, lets lie both together.

UPON A DRINKING-GLASS

The gods of Wine, and Wit, and Love, prepare,
With cheerful bowls, to celebrate the fair;
Love is enjoin'd to name his fav'rite toast,
And Hare's the goddess that delights him most:
Phaebus approves, and bids the trumpets sound,
And Bacchus, in a bumper, sends it round.

Written under a picture of the

COUNTESS OF SANDWICH DRAWN IN MAN'S HABIT ,

When Sandwich in her sex's garb we see,
The queen of Beauty then she seems to be;
Now fair Adonis in this male-disguise,
Or little Cupid with his mother's eyes:
No style of empire chang'd by this remove,
Who seem'd the goddess seems the god of Love.

Sheepheard, what's Love, I pray thee tell? Faustus .
It is that Fountaine, and that Well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps that sauncing bell,
That toules all into heaven or hell,
And this is Love as I heard tell. Meli .
Yet what is Love, I pre-thee say? Fau .
It is a worke on holy-day,
It is December match'd with May,
When lustie-bloods in fresh aray,
Heare ten moneths after of the play,
And this is Love, as I heare say. Meli .

Alas you know not what you bid me do!
He, who loves well, can ne'er distinguish, too.
To paint you, justly, asks cool reason — I
Thro' passion's faithless glass, should look too high.
If, when I trace you, absent, killing fair!
I catch the aguish influence of despair;
To search you, near, my soul cou'd ne'er endure,
Without dissolving quite, in love's hot calenture .

Hands that I loved long years ago —
Dear hands.
Caressive as the desert breezes blow,
They call to me across the sands,
Across the waste, wild prairie lands;
For once they were my own
To kiss and fondle and entwine
With mine.

My fragrant flow'rs the summer suns had sown,
Pink-petalled finger-tips
(Heaven to my lips!)
Sweet violet veins that trace
And keep the pressure of a lost embrace.
They were such white hands,
Pale as the new-lain snow on winter lands;
Dear hands of my delight,

Young Tyrant of the bow and wings,
Thy altar asks three precious things;
The heart's, the world's most precious three,
Courage, and Time, and Constancy!
And Love must have them all, or none:
By Time he 's wearied, but not won;
He shrinks from Courage hot and high;
He laughs at tedious Constancy;
But all his raptures, tender, true, sublime,
Are given to Courage, Constancy, and Time.