THE CURE.

OME, doctor! use thy roughest art,
Thou canft not cruel prove;
Cut, burn, and torture, every part,
To heal me of my love.

There is no danger, if the pain
Should me to a fever bring;

Compar'd with heats I now sustain,
A fever is fo cool a thing,

(Like drink which feverish men defire) That I should hope 'twould almoft quench my

A

THE SEPARATION.

SK me not what my love shall do or be

fire.

(Love, which is foul to body, and foul of me!) When I am feparated from thee;

Alas! I might as easily show,

What after death the foul will do ;

"Twill laft, I'm fure, and that is all we know.

The thing call'd foul will never flir nor move,
But all that while a lifelefs carcafe prove;
For 'tis the body of my love :

Not that my love will fly away,

But ftill continue; as, they fay,

Sad troubled ghofts about their graves do stray.

THE

I

THE TREE.

Chose the flourishing'ft tree in all the park,
With fresheft boughs and fairest head;
I cut my love into his gentle bark,

And in three days, behold! 'tis dead :
My very written flames fo violent be,

They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree.

How should I live myself, whofe heart is found
Deeply graven every where

With the large history of many a wound,
Larger than thy trunk can bear?
With art as strange as Homer in the nut,
Love in my heart has volumes put,

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The leaves and beauties all,

As a strong poifon with one drop does make
The nails and hairs to fall:

Love (I fee now) a kind of witchcraft is,
Or characters could ne'er do this.

Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this shade;
And pardon me, thou gentle tree;

I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And bleffed omens hop'd from thee:

"Notes of my love, thrive here," faid I, " and grow; "And with ye let my love do fo."

Alas, poor youth! thy love will never thrive!

This blafted tree predeftines it;

Go, tie the difmal knot (why should'st thou live?)
And, by the lines thou there haft writ,
Deform'dly hanging, the fad picture be
To that unlucky hiftory.

'T"

IS a ftrange kind of ignorance this in you!
That you your victories should not spy,
Victories gotten by your eye!

That your bright beams, as those of comets do,
Should kill, but not know how, nor who!

That truly you my idol might appear,

Whilft all the people smell and fee

The odorous flames I offer thee, Thou fitt'ft, and doft not fee, nor fmell, nor hear, Thy conftant, zealous worshiper.

They fee 't too well who at my fires repine;

Nay, th' unconcern'd themselves do prove
Quick-ey'd enough to spy my love;

Nor does the caufe in thy face clearlier fhine,
Than the effect appears in mine.

Fair infidel! by what unjuft decree

Muft I, who with fuch reftlefs care

Would make this truth to thee appear,

Muft I, who preach it, and pray for it, be
Damn'd by thy incredulity?

I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless flain :

Oh, have but faith, and then, that you
May know that faith for to be true,
It shall itself by' a miracle maintain,

And raise me from the dead again!

Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown
But lovers' hopes are full of art,

And thus difpute-That, fince my heart,
Though in thy breast, yet is not by thee known,
Perhaps thou may'st not know thine own.

CO

OME, let's go on, where love and youth does call;
I've seen too much, if this be all.

Alas! how far more wealthy might I be
With a contented ignorant poverty !

To fhew fuch ftores, and nothing grant,
Is to enrage and vex my want.

For love to die an infant 's leffer ill,
Than to live long, yet live in childhood still.

We 'ave both fat gazing only, hitherto,
As man and wife in picture do;

The richest crop of joy is still behind,
And he who only fees, in love, is blind.
So, at firft, Pygmalion lov'd,

But th' amour at laft improv'd;

The ftatue' itself at last a woman grew,
And fo at last, my dear, fhould you do too.

X 4

Beauty

Beauty to man the greatest torture is,
Unless it lead to farther blifs,

Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye;
It grows too serious a cruelty,

Unless it heal, as well as ftrike:

I would not, falamander-like,

In fcorching heats always to live defire,
But, like a martyr, pass to heaven through fire.

Mark how the lufty fun falutes the spring,
And gently kiffes every thing!

His loving beams unlock each maiden flower,
Search all the treafures, all the fweets devour :
Then on the earth, with bridegroom-heat,
He does still new flowers beget.

The fun himself, although all eye he be,
Can find in love more pleasure than to fee.

THE

INCURABLE.

I

Try'd if books would cure my love, but found
Love made them nonfenfe all;

I 'apply'd receipts of business to my wound,
But ftirring did the pain recall.

As well might men who in a fever fry,
Mathematic doubts debate;

As well might men who mad in darkness lie,
Write the difpatches of a state.

I try'd