TO CELIA.

BY RICHARD DUKE.

FLY fwift, ye hours; ye fluggish minutes, fly;
Bring back my love, or let her lover dye.
Make hafte, O fun, and to my eyes once more,
My Cælia, brighter than thyfelf, restore.
In fpight of thee, 'tis night when she's away, 57
Her eyes alone can the glad beams difplay,
That make my fky look clear, and guide my day,
her facred light,

O when will the lift

up

And chafe away the flying fhades of night!
With her how faft the flowing hours run on! 10
But oh! how long they stay when she is gone!
So flowly time when clogg'd with grief does move;
So fwift when born upon the wings of love!
Hardly three days, they tell me, yet are past,
Yet 'tis an age fince I beheld her last.

O, my aufpicious ftar, make hafte to rife,

15

To charm our hearts, and blefs our longing eyes!
O, how I long on thy dear eyes to gaze,

And chear my own with their reflected rays!
How my impatient, thirsty foul does long,
To hear the charming mufick of thy tongue!
Where pointed wit with folid judgment grows,
And in one eafie ftream united flows.

*Born 16..; dyed 1710.

20

When-e'er you speak, with what delight we hear, You call up every foul to every ear!

Nature's too prodigal to woman-kind,

Ev'n where she does neglect t' adorn the mind; Beauty alone bears fuch refiftless fway,

25

As makes mankind with joy and pride obey.
But, oh! when wit and fenfe with beauty's join'd, 30
The woman's fweetness with the manly mind;
When nature with so just a hand does mix
The moft engaging charms of either fex;

And out of both that thus in one combine

Does fomething form not humane but divine, 35
What's her command, but that we all adore
The nobleft work of her almighty power!

Nor ought our zeal thy anger to create,

Since love's thy debt, nor is our choice but fate. Where nature bids, worship I'm forc'd to pay, 40 Nor have the liberty to disobey:

And whenfoe'er fhe does a poet make,

She gives him verfe but for thy beauty's fake.

Had I a pen that could at once impart

Soft Ovid's nature and high Virgil's art,

45

Then the immortal Sachariffa's name

Should be but fecond in the list of fame;

Each grove, each fhade, fhould with thy praife be

fill'd,

And the fam'd Penfhurst to our Windfor yield.

A SOLILOQUY out of ITALIAN,

BY SIR SAMUEL GARTH, KT. M.D.

COU'D he whom my diffembled rigour grieves, But know what torment to my foul it gives, He'd find how fondly I return his flame, And want myself the pity he wou'd claim. Immortal gods! why has your doom decreed Two wounded hearts with equal pangs fhou'd bleed? Since that great law, which your tribunal guides, Has join'd in love whom destiny divides; Repent, you pow'rs, the injuries you cause,

5

Or change our natures, or reform your laws. 10
Unhappy partner of my killing pain,
Think what I feel the moment you complain.
Each figh you utter wounds my tend'reft part,
So much my lips mifreprefent my heart.
When from your eyes the falling drops distil,
My vital blood in every tear you spill:
And all thofe mournful agonies I hear
Are but the echoes of my own despair. ·

Born 16..; dyed 1719.

BY THE SAME.

WHEN Fame did o'er the spacious plains
The lays the once had learn'd repeat,
All liftn'd to the tuneful trains,

And wonder'd who could fing fo fweet. 'Twas thus. The graces held the lyre,

Th' harmonious frame the mufes ftrung, The loves and smiles compos'd the choir,

And Gay tranfcrib'd what Phoebus fung,

O'ER

BY ELIJAH FENTON.

I.

'ER Winter's long inclement fway,
At length the lufty Spring prevails;
And, fwift to meet the fmiling May,
Is wafted by the western gales.
Around him dance the rofy Hours,
And damafking the ground with flow'rs,
With ambient fweets perfume the morn
With fhadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A fudden youth the groves enjoy
Where Philomel laments forlorn.

II.

By her awak'd, the woodland choir
To hail the coming god prepares;
And tempts me to refume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal airs.

* Rayn 16....; dyed : 730