Believe not him whom Love hath left so wise,
As to have power his own tale to tell;
For Childrens griefs do yield the loudest cryes,
And cold desires may be expressed well.
In well-told Love most often falshood lyes.
But pity him that onely sighs and Dyes.

His Answer.

Yet trust him that a sad tale tells,
With sighs and tears in's eyes:
For Love with torture often dwells,

The pitied fortune most men chiefly hate,
And rather think the envied fortunate:
Yet I, if Misery did look as she,
Should quickly fall in love with Misery.

What is love? a compound strange,
Made of mingled hopes and fears;
Subject to perpetual change,
Quick succeeding smiles and tears.

What is love? a sudden whim,
Like lightning, passing through the mind:
A strange capricious fickle thing,
More inconstant than the wind.

What is love? a gentle flame,
Blazing round the youthful heart;
Prov'd by the mention of a name,
Which sweet emotions can impart.

Prov'd by the glances of the eye,
Which, what the tongue denies, reveals;
Prov'd by the half suppressed sigh,

Oh ! tell me, thou who all my Soul inspires,
Source of my Joys, and Partner of my Fires,
By what clear Stream, or nigh what flow'ry Mead
Thy tender Flocks with wanton Pleasure feed:
Where does my Dear, my lovely Wand'rer stray;
Tell me, and guide my weary Steps that Way.

In vain I trace the Plains, each winding Grove;
No Swain directs me to my absent Love:
Close in the Covert of some Shade he lyes;
Some envious Shade conceals him from my Eyes:
Bear then my soft Complainings tOhis Ear;

My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood.

Still, still and lovely, as some sculptured form,
She lay draped in her shroud of snowy white;
But cold the cheek that once was purely warm,
And dim the eye that once was proudly bright.

The rich curl-clusters of her golden hair
Hung o'er the pulseless form in careless grace;
And Death's cold shadow rested on the fair
And placid beauty of the faultless face.

The parted lips still wore a ruby tinge,
And round the mouth a smile yet seemed to play;
The right hand rested on the curtain-fringe,

While recent, young, and weak, the unripe seeds
Of those dire cares which have their rise from Love,
Ere yet in rank luxuriance strong and wild
They flourish, crush, and from the incipient ill
Forewarned, retreat; prudent if from the yoke
Ungalled thy neck may be withdrawn. Nor think
The danger distant if no warning pangs
Give friendly notice of its dread approach.
At first, with scanty flow the tinkling rill
Drips from the rock; then oozing through green moss,
Or over pebbles chiming, gently winds
Along its undistinguished path, while flowers

Nursed in the lap of languid ease
The flames of love more fiercely glow,
Long leisure feeds the soft disease,
And bids the sweet infection grow.

With vigour rouse thy torpid soul,
The fond delusion wouldst thou fly,
Action and arms Love's spells controul,
And overpower his feeble cry.

When round the Thracian God her arms
The smiling queen of beauty throws,
When he, inclining o'er her charms,
The faulchion and the spear foregoes,

Then Love protects his mother's bower,
And guards each avenue with care;

A SPARROW and his mate,
(Believe me, gentle Kate!)
Once lov'd like I and you;
With mutual ardour join'd,
No turtles e'er so kind,
So constant and so true.

They hopp'd from spray to spray;
They bill'd, they chirp'd all day,
They cuddled close all night;
To bliss they wak'd each morn,
In every bush and thorn
Gay scenes of new delight.

At length the fowler came,
(The knave was much to blame)
And this dear pair trepann'd;
Both in one cage confin'd:
Why, faith and troth, 'twas kind;

No wonder my heart it is sore,
No wonder the tears that I weep;
My true love I'll see him no more,
He lies fathoms down in the deep.

He lies fathoms down in the deep,
Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound.
How cruel thy wild waves to me,
O sea that my true love hast drowned.

O sea that my true love hast drowned,
Thou hast reft me of joy evermore;
Thy waves make me shudder with fear
As I listen and hear their wild roar.

My true love and I, hand in hand,
Often wandered the uplands among,