Let musick sound the voice of joy,
  Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;
Let love his wanton wiles employ,
  And o’er the season wine prevail. 
Yet time life’s dreary winter brings,
  When mirth’s gay tale shall please no more
Nor musick charm—­though Stella sings;
  Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore. 
Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour,
  Improve each moment as it flies;
Life’s a short summer—­man a flow’r: 
  He dies—­alas! how soon he dies!

THE WINTER’S WALK.

Behold, my fair, where’er we rove,
  What dreary prospects round us rise;
The naked hill, the leafless grove,
  The hoary ground, the frowning skies! 
Nor only through the wasted plain,
  Stern winter! is thy force confess’d;
Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
  I feel thy pow’r usurp my breast. 
Enliv’ning hope, and fond desire,
  Resign the heart to spleen and care;
Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,
  And rapture saddens to despair. 
In groundless hope, and causeless fear,
  Unhappy man! behold thy doom;
Still changing with the changeful year,
  The slave of sunshine and of gloom. 
Tir’d with vain joys, and false alarms,
  With mental and corporeal strife,
Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
  And screen me from the ills of life[a].

[a] And hide me from the sight of life. 1st edition.

TO MISS ****
ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWN
WEAVING[a].

Though gold and silk their charms unite
To make thy curious web delight,
In vain the varied work would shine,
If wrought by any hand but thine;
Thy hand, that knows the subtler art
To weave those nets that catch the heart.

Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;
Nor can I hope thy silken chain
The glitt’ring vagrants shall restrain. 
Why, Stella, was it then decreed,
The heart, once caught, should ne’er be freed?

[a] Printed among Mrs. Williams’s Miscellanies.

TO MISS ****
ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES
OF HER OWN PAINTING[a].

When Stella strikes the tuneful string,
In scenes of imitated spring,
Where beauty lavishes her pow’rs
On beds of never-fading flow’rs,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not, in the dang’rous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flow’r;
But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 
When charms thus press on ev’ry sense,
What thought of flight, or of defence? 
Deceitful hope, and vain desire,
For ever flutter o’er her lyre,
Delighting, as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming, with unerring art,
New chains to hold the captive heart.