A SONG.

  High state and honours to others impart,
    But give me your heart: 
  That treasure, that treasure alone,
    I beg for my own.

  So gentle a love, so fervent a fire,
    My soul does inspire;
  That treasure, that treasure alone,
    I beg for my own. 
  Your love let me crave;
      Give me in possessing
    So matchless a blessing;
  That empire is all I would have. 
      Love’s my petition,
        All my ambition;
      If e’er you discover
      So faithful a lover,
      So real a flame,
      I’ll die, I’ll die,
      So give up my game.

* * * * *

VIII.

RONDELAY.

  1 Chloe found Amyntas lying,
      All in tears upon the plain;
    Sighing to himself, and crying,
      Wretched I, to love in vain! 
    Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
      Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

  2 Sighing to himself, and crying,
      Wretched I, to love in vain! 
    Ever scorning and denying
      To reward your faithful swain: 
    Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
      Kiss me once, and ease my pain: 

  3 Ever scorning, and denying
      To reward your faithful swain: 
    Chloe, laughing at his crying,
      Told him, that he loved in vain: 
    Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
      Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

  4 Chloe, laughing at his crying,
      Told him, that he loved in vain: 
    But repenting, and complying,
      When he kiss’d, she kiss’d again: 
    Kiss’d him up before his dying;
      Kiss’d him up, and eased his pain.

* * * * *

IX.

A SONG.

  1 Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
    I would not die, nor dare complain: 
    Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
    Thy words will more prevail than mine. 
    To souls oppress’d and dumb with grief,
    The gods ordain this kind relief;
    That music should in sounds convey,
    What dying lovers dare not say.

  2 A sigh or tear perhaps she’ll give,
    But love on pity cannot live. 
    Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
    And love with love is only paid. 
    Tell her my pains so fast increase,
    That soon they will be past redress;
    But ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
    Attends but death to close his eyes.

* * * * *

X.

A SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING.

  1 Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring
      So long delays her flowers to bear;
    Why warbling birds forget to sing,
      And winter storms invert the year: 
    Chloris is gone, and fate provides
    To make it Spring, where she resides.