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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;
My ravished soul is charmed all o'er!
I cannot love thee less, or more!

LET not LOVE on me bestow
Soft distress, and tender woe!
I know none but substantial blisses,
Eager glances, solid kisses!

I know not what the Lovers feign
Of finer pleasure mixed with pain!
Then, prithee, give me, gentle Boy!
None of thy grief; but all thy joy!

WHILE gentle PARTHENISSA walks,
And sweetly smiles, and gaily talks;
A thousand shafts around her fly!
A thousand Swains, unheeded, die!

If then, she labours to be seen
With all her killing Air and mien;
From so much beauty, so much art,
What mortal can secure his heart!

THE DISTRESS OF A LOVE-SICK MAID.

FROM place to place forlorn I go,
With downcast eyes, a silent shade!
Forbidden to declare my woe;
To speak till spoken to, afraid!

My inward pangs, my secret grief,
My soft consenting looks betray!
He loves; but gives me no relief!
Why speaks not he, who may?

ME CUPID made a happy slave;
A merry wretched man!

I slight the Nymphs I cannot have!
Nor dote on those I can!

This constant maxim still I hold,
To baffle all despair,

The absent, ugly are and old;
The present, young and fair.

A TRIFLING Song you shall hear;
Begun with a trifle and ended.
All trifling people, draw near;
And I shall be nobly attended!

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?
Because the Ladies, they know,
Admire, by often possessing,

That eminent trifle, a Beau! ...

What mortal man would be able
At WHITE's half an hour to sit,
Or who could bear a tea-table;
Without talking of trifles for wit!

The Court is from trifles secure!
Gold Keys are no trifles, we see!
White Rods are no trifles, I'm sure;
Whatever their bearers may be!

But if you will go to the place
Where trifles abundantly breed,
The Levée will show you his Grace
Makes promises trifles indeed!

A coach with six footmen behind,
I count neither trifle, nor sin;
But, ye Gods! how oft do we find
A scandalous trifle within!

A flask of Champagne, people think it
A trifle, or something as bad;
But if you'll contrive how to drink it,
You'll find it no trifle, egad!

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 reason, pray carry along!
Because, at ev'ry new Play,

The House they with trifles so throng.

But with people's malice to trifle,
And to set us all on a foot;
The Author of this is a trifle;
And his Song is a trifle to boot!

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