English

When raging Summer, from his blazing throne,
Darts his fierce rays o'er all the breezeless skies,
How soft a night, the grove, to which he flies,
Flings o'er the languid fugitive from noon!
There, screen'd from Heaven's oppressive fervour, soon
His sense revives, as stretch'd at ease he lies:
Reliev'd from glare, to his recovering eyes
The sylvan scene, by graver light, is shown:
Such, pleasing Melancholy, thy bland power!
Shade of the heart! the panting soul's retreat
From scorching joys! blest is thy sombrous hour,

To forge to mightie Ioue
The thunder-bolts aboue,
Nor on this round below
Rich Midas' skill to know,
And make all gold I touch,
I doe not craue, nor other cunning such:
For all those artes bee vnderneath the skie,
I wish but Phillis' lapidare to bee.

Svch Lida is, that who her sees,
Through enuie, or through loue, straight dies.

This deare, though not respected earth doth hold
One, for his worth, whose tombe should bee of gold.

Tir'd wi' tramping moors an' mosses,
Speeling stairs, an' lifting snecks,
Daunering down through lanes an' closses,
Buskin' braw the bonny sex,

Hame, at e'ening, late I scuded,
Whare auld Reekie's turrets tow'r,
Mirk the Lift was, drousy cluded,
An' the starns begoud to glow'r;

In my nieve, my honest Lucky,
Soon's I reek't her ingle cheek,
Ram't yer lines — as daft's a bucky
Was I when I heard you speak.

Ben the room I ran wi' hurry,
Clos'd the door wi' unco glee,

Ah! of that cruell bee
Thy lips haue suckt too much,
For when they mine did touch,
I found that both they hurt, and sweetned mee:
This by the sting they haue,
And that they of the honey doe receaue;
Deare kisse, else by what arte
Couldst thou at once both please and wound my heart?

As an audacious knight,
Come with some foe to fight,
His sword doth brandish, makes his armour ring,
So this prowde bee, at home perhaps a king,
Did buzzing flie about,
And, tyrant, after thy faire lip did sting:
O champion strange as stout!
Who hast by nature found
Sharpe armes, and trumpet shrill, to sound, and wound.

Some ladies wed, some loue, and some adore them,
I like their wanton sport, then care not for them.

To Miss Fortesque,

I.

Ye sylvan scenes with artless beauty gay,
Ye gentle shades of Wickham! say
What is the charm that each successive year
Which sees me with my Lucy here
Can thus to my transported heart
A sense of joy unfelt before impart?

II.

Is it glad Summer's balmy breath that blows
From the fair jasmine and the blushing rose?
Her balmy breath and all her blooming store
Of rural bliss was here before;
Oft' have I met her on the verdant side

Ye gladsome bells, how misapplied your peal!
A day, like this, requires a solemn chime:
Infatuate mortals! why, with sportive heel,
Dance ye exulting o'er the grave of Time?

Is he your foe, that thus ye ring his knell?
That festive notes announce his awful flight?
Tire ye of day, that sounds of triumph tell,
How swift the wing that wafts your last, long night?

While circling years o'er thoughtless myriads roll,
Long folly but to lend, and length of shame,
Ye metal tongues, swing slow with mournful toll,