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Oweep not, Lady, weep not fo;
Some ghoftly comfort feek:

Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, boly Friar,
My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the sweetest youth,
That e'er won lady's love.

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Weep no more, Lady, weep no more,

Thy forrow is in vain:

For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow again,

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then should forrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy lofs,
Grieve not for what is past.

O fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee, fay not fo:

For fince my true-love dy'd, for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.

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And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave. For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rofe;
The comelieft youth was he!---
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!

Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:

One foot on fea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Hadft thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee fad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since fummer trees were leafy.

Now fay not fo, thou holy Friar,
I pray thee fay not fo,

My love he has the trueft heart:

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
And didft thou die for me?

Then farewel home; for evermore
A pilgrim L will be.

But first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kifs the green-grafs turf,

That wraps his breathless elay.

Yet ftay, fair Lady, rest a while

Beneath this cloyster wall:

See, through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy Friar!
O ftay me not I pray!

No drizzly rain that falls on me
Can wash my fault away.

Yet ftay, fair Lady, turn again,
And dry thofe pearly tears;
For fee, beneath this gown of gray
Thy own true-love appears.

Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I fought; And here amid thefe lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet past away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay.

Now farewel grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart :

For fince I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.

A TA L E.

BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ES2

ERE Saturn's fons were yet difgrac'd,

And heathen gods were all the taste,
Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will
To take an air on Ida's hill.

It chanc'd, as once with ferious ken
He view'd from thence the ways of men,
He faw (and pity touch'd his breast)
The world by three foul fiends poffeft:
Pale Discord there, and Folly vain,
With haggard Vice, upheld their reign.
Then forth he fent his fummons high,
And call'd a fenate of the fky.
Round as the winged orders prest,
Jove thus his facred mind exprest:
"Say, which of all this shining train
"Will Virtue's conflict hard fuftain ?
"For fee! fhe drooping takes her flight,
"While not a god fupports her right.”

He paus'd---when from amidst the sky,
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony,

With one united zeal arofe,

The triple tyrants to oppose.

That inftant from the realms of day,
With generous fpeed, they took their way;
To Britain's ifle direct their ear,
And enter'd with the evening star.
Befide the road a manfion ftood,
Defended by a circling wood:
Hither, difguis'd, their steps they bend,
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend:
Nor vain their hope; for records fay,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.
They urge the traveller's common chance,
And every piteous plea advance:

The artful tale that Wit had feign'd,
Admittance easy foon obtain'd.

The dame who own'd, adorn'd' the place;
Three blooming daughters added grace.
The firft, with gentlest manners bleft
And temper fweet, each heart poffest;
Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame:

And foft Amafia was her name.

In fprightly fenfe and polish'd air,
What maid with Mira might compare!
While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre,

Did unrefifted love inspire.

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