WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,
But Chloe beauteous, Chloe 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.
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But, when you and she to-
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happend to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?
your cares to her you sing,
You dare not tell her whence they spring;
Does it not more afflict your heart,
in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see
Whom Chloe loves, and who
Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then Forty
LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Marys fetters,
summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,
Should dart their
kindling fire, and look
The power they have to be obeyd.
Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the
house my passion reads,
In papers round her babys hair;
She may receive and own my flame,
For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The rhymes some younger rival sends,
Shell give me
leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,
Tis so ordaind (would Fate but mend it!),
That I shall be past
When she begins to comprehend it.
THE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowd name:
Euphelia serves to
grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelias toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire
I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And while I sing Euphelias
I fix my soul on Chloes eyes.
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