PROLOGUE

Women like us (passing for men), you'll cry,
Presume too much upon your secrecy.
There's not a fop in town but will pretend
To know the cheat himself, or by his friend.
Then make no words on 't, gallants, 'tis e'en true,
We are condemn'd to look, and strut, like you.
Since we thus freely our hard fate confess,
Accept us these bad times in any dress.
You'll find the sweet on 't, now old pantaloons
Will go as far as formerly new gowns;
And from your own cast wigs expect no frowns.

" WHEN LOVE CAME FIRST "

When Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rosebeds to receive him;
And back he vowed his flight he'd wing
To Heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring departing saw his faith
Pledged to the next new comer —
He revelled in the warmer breath
And richer bowers of Summer.

Then sportive Autumn claimed by rights
An Archer for her lover;

AN ANACREONTIC ON LOVE

When a' the warld had clos'd their een,
Fatigu'd with labour, care, and din,
And quietly ilka weary wight
Enjoy'd the silence of the night;
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat,
With a' his pith rapt at my yeat.
Surpriz'd, throw sleep, I cry'd " Wha 's that? "
Quoth he " A poor young wean a' wat;
" Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae skaith,
" Else soon this storm will be my death. "

With his complaint my soul grew wae,
For, as he said, I thought it sae:

High above the wrecks of ages,
Brightening all of hist'ry's pages,
Love has shone,
Planet-like, in life's dark heaven,
" Sweetest boon to mortals given, "
Sweet alone!

Life is brief, but Love 's eternal,
Always young, as Spring is vernal,
Always strong.
Give me love in largest measure,
From your hearts' abundant treasure,
Is my song.

High above the wrecks of ages,
Brightening all of hist'ry's pages,
Love has shone,
Planet-like, in life's dark heaven,
" Sweetest boon to mortals given, "
Sweet alone!

O love, all love above,
Why hast thou struck me so?
All my heart, broke atwo,
Consumed in flames of love,
Burning and flaming cannot find solace;
It cannot fly from torment, being bound;
Like wax among live coal it melts apace;
It languishes alive, no help being found;
Seeking a grace to fly a little space,
A glowing furnace is its narrow pound.
In such a deadly swound,
Alas, where am I brought?

Let mad ambition strive to gain
The cherished wish that yields but pain;
Let others seek for wealth alone,
And with its cares their lives atone;
But let me live my fleeting hour
The slave of Love's divinest power.

Let mad ambition strive to gain
The cherished wish that yields but pain;
Let others seek for wealth alone,
And with its cares their lives atone;
But let me live my fleeting hour
The slave of Love's divinest power.

Sweet are the thoughts that stir the virgin's breast,
When Love first enters there a timid guest;
Before her dazzled eyes gay visions shine,
And laughing Cupids wreaths of roses twine;
And conscious Beauty hastens to employ
Her span of empire and her dream of joy.

Sarah, not thus to thee his power is shown.
More stern he greets thee from his awful throne;
Thee, called to bid thy cheering converse flow,
And shed thy sweetness in the house of woe;
The solemn sympathies of grief to share,
And, sadly smiling, soothe a sister's care.

Within the cot the Muses love,
May Peace reside, that household dove!
Beneath this roof, around this hearth,
Mild Wisdom mix with social Mirth!
May Friendship often seek the door
Where Science pours her varied store!
Her richest dyes may Flora spread,
And early paint the garden's bed!
May Health descend with healing wing,
Bright days and balmy nights to bring!
And tried Affection still be by,
Love's watchful ear and anxious eye;
And Sport and Laughter hither move,
To bless the cot the Muses love!

I

Droop , droop, soft little eyelids!
Droop over eyes of weird wild blue!
Under the fringe of those tremulous shy lids
Glances of love and of fun peep through.

II

Sing, sing, sweetest of maidens!
Carol away with thy white little throat!
Echo awakes to the exquisite cadence,
Here on the magical mere afloat.

III

Dream, dream, heart of my own love!
Sweet is the wind from the odorous south —

I

Sweet it is by the Summer river
Where oleanders blush rose-red,
When the delicate eyelids quiver,
When with kisses young lips are fed.
Ay, you have known it! Own it . . . own it!
This is the joy the good gods send:
Love's gay rhyme is older than Time is . . .
Ah, but all must have an end!

II

Love was made to madden and plague us,
Fresh as the flowers of the river-bed,
Sharp as the sword that's dipt in Tagus,
Sad with delight and sweet with dread.