English

ON DELIA'S BIRTH-DAY .

This day, which saw my Delia's beauties rise,
Shall more than all our sacred days be blest,
The world, enamour'd of her lovely eyes,
Shall grow as good and gentle, as her breast.

By all our guarded sighs, and hid desires,
Oh may our guiltless love be still the same!
I burn, and glory in the pleasing fires,
If Delia's bosom share the mutual flame.

Thou happy genius of her natal hour,
Accept her incense, if her thoughts be kind;

HE HAS LOST DELIA .

H E who could first two gentle hearts unbind,
And rob a lover of his weeping fair,
Hard was the man, but harder in my mind,
The lover still, who died not of despair:

With mean disguise, let others nature hide,
And mimic virtue, with the paint of art,
I scorn the cheat of reasons' foolish pride,
And boast the graceful weakness of my heart.

The more I think, the more I feel my pain,
And learn the more each heavenly charm to prize,

HE DESPAIRS THAT HE SHALL EVER POSSESS DELIA .

A H what avails thy lover's pious care?
His lavish incense clouds the sky in vain,
Nor wealth, nor greatness was his idle prayer,
For thee alone he pray'd, thee hop'd to gain;

With thee I hop'd to waste the pleasing day,
Till in thy arms an age of joy was past,
Then old with love insensibly decay,
And on thy bosom gently breathe my last.

I scorn the Lydian river's golden wave,
And all the vulgar charms of human life,
I only ask, to live my Delia's slave,

ON DELIA'S BEING IN THE COUNTRY, WHERE HE
SUPPOSES SHE STAYS TO SEE THE HARVEST .

Now Delia breathes in woods the fragrant air,
Dull are the hearts, that still in town remain,
Venus herself attends on Delia there,
And Cupid sports amid the sylvan train.

Oh with what joy my Delia to behold,
I'd press the spade, or wield the weighty prong,
Guide the slow plough-share thro' the stubborn mould.
And patient goad the loitering ox along:

The scorching heats I'd carelessly despise,

HE ADJURES DELIA TO PITY HIM BY THEIR FRIENDSHIP WITH CELIA WHO WAS LATELY DEAD .

Thousands would seek the lasting peace of death,
And in that harbour shun the storm of care,
Officious Hope still holds the fleeting breath,
She tells them still, — to-morrow will be fair.

She tells me, Delia, I shall thee obtain,
But can I listen to her syren song,
Who seven slow months have dragg'd my painful chain,
So long thy lover, and despis'd so long?

By all the joys thy dearest Celia gave,

THE LOVER IS AT FIRST INTRODUCED SPEAKING TO HIS SERVANT, HE AFTERWARDS ADDRESSES HIMSELF TO HIS MISTRESS, AND AT LAST THERE IS A SUPPOSED INTERVIEW BETWEEN THEM .

With wine, more wine deceive thy master's care,
Till creeping slumber soothe his troubled breast,
Let not a whisper stir the silent air,
If hapless love a while consent to rest.

Untoward guards befet my Cynthia's doors,
And cruel locks the imprison'd fair conceal,
May lightnings blast whom love in vain implores,
And Jove's own thunder rive those bolts of steel.

TO HIS FRIEND, WRITTEN UNDER THE CONFINEMENT
OF A LONG INDISPOSITION .

While calm you sit beneath your secret shade,
And lose in pleasing thought the summer day,
Or tempt the wish of some unpractis'd maid,
Whose heart at once inclines and fears to stray:

The sprightly vigour of my youth is fled,
Lonely and sick on death is all my thought,
Oh spare, Persephone, this guiltless head,
Love, too much love, is all thy suppliant's fault.

No virgin's easy faith I e'er betray'd,

HE UPBRAIDS AND THREATENS THE AVARICE OF
NEAERA, AND RESOLVES TO QUIT HER .

Should Jove descend in floods of liquid ore,
And golden torrents stream from every part,
That craving bosom still would heave for more,
Not all the God could satisfy thy heart:

But may thy folly, which can thus disdain
My honest love, the mighty wrong repay,
May midnight fire involve thy sordid gain,
And on the shining heaps of rapine prey:

May all the youths, like me, by love deceiv'd,

UNABLE TO SATISFY THE COVETOUS TEMPER OF
NEAERA, HE INTENDS TO MAKE A CAMPAIGN, AND
TRY, IF POSSIBLE, TO FORGET HER .

Adieu , ye walls, that guard my cruel fair,
No more I'll sit in rosy fetters bound,
My limbs have learnt the weight of arms to bear,
My rousing spirits feel the trumpet's sound.

Few are the maids, that now on merit smile,
On spoil and war is bent this iron age;
Yet pain and death attend on war and spoil,
Unsated vengeance, and remorseless rage.

ON HIS FALLING IN LOVE WITH NEAERA .

Farewell that liberty our fathers gave,
In vain they gave, their sons receiv'd in vain:
I saw Neaera, and her instant slave,
Though born a Briton, hugg'd the servile chain.

Her usage well repays my coward heart,
Meanly she triumphs in her lover's shame,
No healing joy relieves his constant smart,
No smile of love rewards the loss of fame.

Oh that to feel these killing pangs no more,
On Scythian hills I lay a senseless stone,