LOVE'S ORIGINAL. LOVE is a scion cropped from Virtue's tree, And grafted in the stock of Purity; Planted at first in Nature's choicest soil, Before the Fiend did Nature's beauty spoil: But thence transplanted to a richer ground Than can in all Dame Nature's realm be found; Where, being well manured, it takes deep root Downward, and branches upward forth doth shoot. The sap, which doth this stately tree maintain, Is Sympathy: which runs, as in a vein, Through every branch; causing it first to sprout, And ere awhile, young tender buds spring out! Nor is it barren; but much fruit doth bear, To taste most pleasing, and to sight most fair: A sound substantial fruit that can endure The sharpest frost, and yet continue pure. And that ye may this fruit the more admire, Take notice, that I call it Chaste Desire! WHY, lovely Charmer! tell me, Why So very kind; and yet so shy? Why does that cold forbidding Air Give damps of sorrow and despair? Or why that smile, my soul subdue; And kindle up my flames anew? In vain, you strive, with all your art, By turns, to freeze, and fire, my heart! When I behold a face so fair, So sweet a look, so soft an Air; LET not LOVE on me bestow I know not what the Lovers feign WHILE gentle PARTHENISSA walks, If then, she labours to be seen THE DISTRESS OF A LOVE-SICK MAID. FROM place to place forlorn I go, My inward pangs, my secret grief, ME CUPID made a happy slave; I slight the Nymphs I cannot have! This constant maxim still I hold, The absent, ugly are and old; A TRIFLING Song you shall hear; Were it not for trifles a few, That lately have come into play; The men would want something to do, And the women want something to say! What makes men trifle in dressing? That eminent trifle, a Beau! ... What mortal man would be able The Court is from trifles secure! But if you will go to the place A coach with six footmen behind, A flask of Champagne, people think it A Parson's a trifle at sea! A Widow's a trifle in sorrow! A Peace is a trifle to-day; Who knows what may happen to-morrow? A Black Coat, a trifle may cloak; Or to hide it, the Red may endeavour! But if once the Army is broke ; We shall have more trifles than ever! The Stage is a trifle, they say; The House they with trifles so throng. But with people's malice to trifle, |