Oh, fountains! when in you fhall I Myfelf, eas'd of unpeaceful thoughts, efpy? Oh fields! oh woods! when, when fhall I be made The happy tenant of your fhade? Here's the fpring-head of pleasure's flood; Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here,
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs fcatter,
And nought but echo flatter.

The Gods, when they defcended, hither

From heaven did always chuse their way ;

And therefore we may boldly fay,

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I,

And one dear She, live, and embracing die!
She, who is all the world, and can exclude
In defarts folitude.

I should have then this only fear-
Left men, when they my pleasures fee,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And fo`make a city here.

MY

MY DIET.

NOW, by my Love, the greatest oath that is,

None loves you half fo well as I:

I do not ask your love for this;
But for Heaven's fake believe me, or I die.
No fervant e'er but did deferve

His mafter should believe that he does ferve;
And I'll ask no more wages, though I starve.

'Tis no luxurious diet this, and fure
I shall not by 't too lufty prove;
Yet fhall it willingly endure,

If 't can but keep together life and love.
Being your prifoner and your flave,

I do not feafts and banquets look to have;
A little bread and water 's all I crave.

On a figh of pity I a year can live;

One tear will keep me twenty, at least ;
Fifty, a gentle look will give;

An hundred years on one kind word I'll feast:
A thousand more will added be,

If you an inclination have for me;
And all beyond is vaft eternity!

THE

TH

HOU robb'st my days of business and delights,
Of fleep thou robb'st my nights;

Ah, lovely thief! what wilt thou do?
"What? rob me of heaven too?

Thou ev'n my prayers dost steal from me;
And I, with wild idolatry,

Begin to God, and end them all to thee.

Is it a fin to love, that it should thus,
Like an ill confcience torture us?
Whate'er I do, where'er I go,
(None guiltless e'er was haunted fo!)
Still, ftill, methinks, thy face I view,
And still thy shape does me pursue,
As if, not you me, but I had murder'd you.

From books I ftrive some remedy to take,

But thy name all the letters make;
Whate'er 'tis writ, I find That there,
Like points and comma's every where :
Me bleft for this let no man hold;
For I, as Midas did of old,
Perifh by turning every thing to gold.

What do I seek, alas! or why do I
Attempt in vain from thee to fly?
For making thee my deity,
I gave thee then ubiquity.
My pains refemble hell in this;

The divine prefence there too is,

But to torment men, not to give them blifs.

ALL

ALL OVER LOVE.

IS well, 'tis well with them, say I,

TIS

Whofe fhort-liv'd paffions with themselves can

die:

For none can be unhappy, who,

'Midft all his ills, a time does know
(Though ne'er so long) when he shall not be fo.

Whatever parts of me remain,
Thofe parts will ftill the love of thee retain;
For 'twas not only in my heart,

But, like a God, by powerful art

'Twas all in all, and all in every part.

My' affection no more perish can
Than the first matter that compounds a man..
Hereafter, if one duft of me.

Mix'd with another's fubftance be,

'Twill leaven that whole lump with love of thee....

Let Nature, if the please, difperfe

My atoms over all the univerfe;

At the last they easily shall

Themselves know, and together call;

For thy love, like a mark, is stamp'd on all.

LOVE

LOVE

AND LIFE.

OW, fure, within this twelvemonth past,

I 'ave lov'd at least fome twenty years or more:
Th' account of Love runs much more faft

Than that with which our life does score:
So, though my life be fhort, yet I may prove
The great Methufalem of Love!

Not that Love's hours or minutes are
Shorter than those our being 's measur'd by ;
But they 're more close compacted far,
And fo in leffer room do lie:

Thin airy things extend themselves in space,
Things folid take up little place.

Yet Love, alas! and Life, in me,
Are not two feveral things, but purely one;
At once how can there in it be

O yes,

A double, different motion ?

for fo the felf-fame fun

there may;
At once does flow and swiftly run:

Swiftly his daily journey he goes,
But treads his annual with a statelier pace;
And does three hundred rounds enclofe

Within one yearly circle's space;

At once, with double courfe in the same sphere,
He runs the day, and walks the year.

When