THE CURE. OME, doctor! use thy roughest art, There is no danger, if the pain Compar'd with heats I now sustain, (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, 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, And in three days, behold! 'tis dead : They 've burnt and wither'd-up the tree. How should I live myself, whofe heart is found With the large history of many a wound, What a few words from thy rich stock did take As a strong poifon with one drop does make Love (I fee now) a kind of witchcraft is, Pardon, ye birds and nymphs, who lov'd this shade; I thought her name would thee have happy made, "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?) 'T" IS a ftrange kind of ignorance this in you! That your bright beams, as those of comets do, 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 Nor does the caufe in thy face clearlier fhine, 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 I, by thy unbelief, am guiltless flain : Oh, have but faith, and then, that you And raise me from the dead again! Meanwhile my hopes may seem to be o'erthrown And thus difpute-That, fince my heart, CO OME, let's go on, where love and youth does call; Alas! how far more wealthy might I be To fhew fuch ftores, and nothing grant, For love to die an infant 's leffer ill, We 'ave both fat gazing only, hitherto, The richest crop of joy is still behind, But th' amour at laft improv'd; The ftatue' itself at last a woman grew, X 4 Beauty Beauty to man the greatest torture is, Beyond the tyrannous pleasures of the eye; Unless it heal, as well as ftrike: I would not, falamander-like, In fcorching heats always to live defire, Mark how the lufty fun falutes the spring, His loving beams unlock each maiden flower, The fun himself, although all eye he be, THE INCURABLE. I Try'd if books would cure my love, but found I 'apply'd receipts of business to my wound, As well might men who in a fever fry, As well might men who mad in darkness lie, I try'd |