Whilst Ovid here reveals the various arts
Both how to polish and direct their darts,
Let meaner beauties by his rules improve,
And read these lines to gain success in love:
But Heav'n alone, that multiplies our race,
Has pow'r t' increase the conquests of your face.
The Spring, before he paints the rising flow'rs,
Receives mild beams and soft descending shew'rs;
But love blooms ever fresh beneath your charms,
Tho' neither pity weeps nor kindness warms.
The chiefs who doubt success assert their claim
By stratagems, and poorly steal a name:

Come idle urchin, treach'rous boy,
Thou dang'rous play-thing, transient joy:
Thy restless pinion hither bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or on a fragrant gale repose,
Fresh from the bosom of a rose;
Or on a sun-beam hither hie,
Or bear thee on a balmy sigh!
Oh come, while yet th' impulse is warm,
To realize thy Proteus form,
Come, arm'd with all thy magic arts,
Thy quiver, arrows, bow and darts;
Come with thy legion of delusions,
Call up thy phalanx of illusions;

Embody all thy arch conceptions,

That Love when journeying to Delight should tire!
That Beauty, too, (both of celestial birth,)
Should faint and pine for wants that are of earth,
And which the body only doth require!
That souls which soar to heaven, and would wing higher,
Should be thus imped, in their divinest mirth,
By things to minds immortal nothing-worth,
And which clean spirits loathe as an alloying mire! —
These muttered thoughts, that baffled Bliss did frame,
My bosomed love half heard — and took for chiding
That which frail Nature, and not her, did blame;

(“Jeune fille, l'amour.”)

Dear Child, at first dear love's a mirror bright
Whereo'er fair women bend with fond delight
 For bold or timorous gazing;
With heavenly beams each heart it doth fulfil,
Making all good things lovelier, all things ill
 From the rapt soul erasing.
Then one bends nearer, 'tis a pool … and then
A deep abysm! and clinging hands are vain
 To banks frail flowers are crowning!—
Charming is love, but deadly! Fear it, Sweet,
In a river first the foolish little feet
 Dip; then a fair form's drowning!

In wyll to strong, in worke to weake is loue,
In hope to bolde, in feare more faynte then needes:
In thought a thousand guyles it stryues to proue,
In guyle, suspition painefull passions breedes.
Suspition easely yeelds to light beleefe,
And light beleefe to iealousie is thrall,
The iealous mynde deuoures it selfe with griefe,
Thus loue at once doth frye, freese, ryse and fall.
On pleasures paste to thinke, it takes delighte,
Whyles present blisse, by fonde conceyte it balkes,
Although the fruite it fynde, be pensiue plight,

I.

Give me the Harp — but every chord
That's mournful cast away;
My memory alone is stor'd
With sonnets light and gay;
Not such as Love incessant leaves
Within his spell-fraught bowers,
But such as sparkling Pleasure weaves
With Fancy's lightest flowers.
Then give the Harp — but pr'ythee take
The mournful chord away,
And notes of joy I'll swiftly wake,
And sonnets light and gay.

II.

If life's bright dawn was only made
To be obscur'd with tears,
Then keep the chord — its friendly shade

Rage on, ye winds, with direst might,
Descend ye lightnings from above;
Enfold me round ye shades of night,
And shield me from the shafts of Love.

No more can gentle Peace resume
Its wonted throne within my breast;
Or Hope the darksome void illume,
Sad bosom barr'd for e'er of rest.

Unkind Miranda! merc'less fair!
Say, why you caus'd me thus distress'd?
Too lovely nymph! why solemn swear,
You liv'd to make Orlando blest?

Say, why that cruel fond concern
Of poor Orlando, once you took?

There was a harp of old that hung
In fairy woods, — and youths of fire
Would touch the string, and, as they sung,
Breathe forth their inmost heart's desire.

Then swift the harp an answer made,
An answer ne'er to be forgot,
And told the swain the bashful maid
Was his alone, — or she was not.

Oh, were that harp existing now,
I would not seek its wild decree,
I'd trust unto my Mary's vow,
That she exists alone for me.

I'd sooner trust her glancing eye,
Which hath for me a sun-shine wore,

Ah, virtuous Bard! how sadly-silent lies
Thy tuneful tongue, that, with melodious sound,
Sung GOD's amazing works — the lofty skies
With glory beaming — earth with beauty crown'd.

Tho' here thy mortal part, in humble dust,
Lies underneath this sacred roof, interr'd;
Thy happy soul, united to the just,
Meets the reward thy wish to fame preferr'd.

The brazen tablet, a memorial here,
May moulder; but thy name shall never die:
For, in thy works, to Truth and Genius dear,
Shine, love to man, and love to GOD most high.

Who shall gain the maiden's love?
For so lovely are her eyes,
And so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

As a hawk's, her eyes no less
Than flowers are in loveliness,
But how may he bear their stress
Who in their fair bondage lies?
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!

For her eyes, that clear and fair
As a royal eagle's are,
Turn the living to despair,
And the dead are racked with sighs.
For so lovely are her eyes,
Who shall have them for a prize!