A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED,

IN gray-hair’d Calia’s wither'd arms

As mighty Lewis lay,
he cry'd, If I have any charms,

My dearest, let's away.
For you, my Love, is all

my

fear!
Hark! how the drums do rattle!
Alas, Sir! what should you do here

In dreadful day of battle ?
Let little Orange stay and fight,

For danger 's his diversion ;
The wifè will think you in the right,

Not to expose your person :
Nor vex your thoughts how to repair

The ruins of your glory;
You ought to leave fo mean a care

To those who pen your story.
Are not Boileau and Corneille paid

For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made,

Without the help of fighting.
When foes too faucily approach,

'Tis best to leave them fairly :
Put fix good horses to your coach,

And carry me to Marly.

:

Let Bouflers, to secure your fame,

Go take some town or buy it;
Whilst you, great Sir, at Nôtredame,

Te Deum fing in quiet.

PHYLLIS, the fairest of Love's focs,

Though fiercer than a dragon, Phyllis, that scorn'd. the powder'd beaux,,

What has she now to brag on?
So long she kept her legs so close,

Till they had scarte a rag on.
Compell’d through want, this wretched maid

Did sad complaints begin ;
Which furly Strephon hearing, faid,

It was both fhame and fin,
To pity such a lazy jade,

As will neither play nor spin.

DORINDA's sparkling wit and eyes,

United, cait' too fierce a light, Which blazes high, but quickly dies,

Pains not the heart, but hurts the fight.

Love is a calmer, gentler joy,

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace;
Her Cupid is a black-guard boy,
That runs his link full in

your face.

SYLV

YLVIA, methinks you are unfit

For your great lord's embrace ; For though we all allow you wit,

We can't a handsome face.

Then where 's the pleasure, where 's the good,

Of spending time and cost :
For if your wit ben't understood,

Your keeper's bliss is lost.

PHYLLIS, for frame let us improve

A thousand different ways,
Those few short moments snatch'd by love,
From many tedious days.

II.
If you want courage to despise

The cenfure of the grave,
Though Love's a tyrant in your eyes,
Your heart is but a llave.

P

Ill. My

III.
My love is full of noble pride,

Nor can it e'er submit,
To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

IV.
False friends I have, as well as you,

Who daily counsel me
Fame and Ambition to pursue,
And leave off loving thee.

V.
But when the least regard I shew

To fools who thus advise,
May I be dull enough to grow

Most miserably wise !

I.
ORYDON beneath a willow,

By a murmuring current laid,
His arm reclin'd, the lovers pillow,

Thus address’d the charming maid.

II. O! my Sachariffa, tell

How could Nature take delight, That a heart so hard should dwell

In a frame fo soft and white.

III. Could

III.
Could you feel but half the anguish,

Half the tortures that I bear,
How for you I daily languish,

I
You'd be kind as you are fair.

IV.
See the fire that in me reigns,

O! behold a burning man ;
Think I feel my dying pains,

And be cruel if you can.

V.
With her conquest pleas'd, the dame

Cry'd, with an insulting look,
Yes, I fain would quench your flame

She spoke, and pointed to the brook.