THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

ALEXIS shunned his fellow Swains,
Their rural sports, and jovial strains.
(Heaven guard us all from CUPID'S bow!)
He lost his crook. He left his flocks;
And, wand'ring through the lonely rocks,
He nourished endless woe!

The Nymphs and Shepherds round him came:
His grief, some pity! others blame!
The fatal cause all kindly seek.
He mingled his concern with theirs;
He gave them back their friendly tears;
He sighed; but would not speak!

CLORINDA came, among the rest;
And she too kind concern exprest,
And asked the reason of his woe.
She asked: but with an Air and mien
That made it easily foreseen,

She feared too much to know.

The Shepherd raised his mournful head,
'And will you pardon me,' he said,
'While I, the cruel truth reveal?

Which nothing from my breast should tear,
Which never should offend your ear,

But that you bid me tell.

"Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain; Since you appeared upon the plain!

You are the cause of all my care! Your eyes, ten thousand dangers dart! Ten thousand torments vex my heart! I love, and I despair!'

'Too much, ALEXIS! I have heard! 'Tis what I thought! 'tis what I feared! And yet I pardon you!' she cried, 'But you must promise ne'er again To breathe your vows; or speak your pain!' He bowed, obeyed, and died!

A DUTCH PROVERB.

'FIRE, Water, Woman, are Man's ruin!' Says wise Professor VAN DER BRUIN. By flames, a house I hired was lost Last year; and I must pay the cost! This Spring, the rains o'erflowed my ground; And my best Flanders mare was drowned! A slave I am to CLARA's eyes; The gipsy knows her power, and flies! Fire, Water, Woman, are my ruin; And great thy wisdom, VAN DER BRUIN!

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, OF FIVE YEARS OLD;

THE AUTHOR SUPPOSED, FORTY.

LORDS, Knights, and Squires, the num'rous Band
That wear the fair Miss MARY'S fetters,
Were summoned, by her high command,
To show their Passion by their Letters.

My pen, amongst the rest, I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires; and look The power they have to be obeyed.

Nor Quality, nor Reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell!

Dear Five Years Old befriends my Passion!
And I may write till she can spell!

For, while she makes her silk-worms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house, my Passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive, and own my flame!

For, though the strictest Prudes should know it,

She'll pass for a most virtuous Dame;

And I, for an unhappy Poet!

Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger Rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear;
And we shall still continue friends!

For as our diff'rent ages move,

'Tis so ordained, (Would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

WHILE from our looks, fair Nymph! you guess The secret Passions of our mind, 'My heavy eyes,' you say, 'confess

A heart to Love and Grief inclined!'

There needs, alas! but little art

To have this fatal secret found!

With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain, you may show the wound!

How can I see you, and not love?

While you, as opening East are fair! While cold as northern blasts you prove; How can I love, and not despair?

The wretch, in double fetters bound,
Your potent mercy may release!
Soon, if my love by you were crowned,
Fair Prophetess! my grief would cease!

THE QUESTION TO LISETTA.

WHAT Nymph should I admire, or trust, But CLOE beauteous! CLOE just?

What Nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the Lay, But her who listens when I play?

To whom, in Song repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?

For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love, am I not fully blest?
LISETTA, prithee, tell the rest!

LISETTA'S REPLY.

SURE, CLOE just, and CLOE fair,
Deserves to be your only care!
But (when you and she, to-day,
Far into the wood did stray;
And I happened to pass by)
Which way did you cast your eye?

But when your cares to her you sing; You dare not tell her, whence they spring! Does it not more afflict your heart,

That in those cares she bears a part?