Tho' the Plumb, and the Peach, with Apollo conspire,
To present you their Softness, and Sweetness, and Fire;
Their Aid is in vain; for what can they do,
But blush, and confess them selves vanquish'd by you?
Where Virtue and Wit with such Qualities blend,
What Mortal, what Goddess, would dare to contend?
Dear Philomela, oft you condescend,
With Notes seraphic, to transport your Friend:
Then in Return, let Verse your Soul rejoice,
Wise, as your Converse, rapt'rous, as your Voice.
You whose clear life, one fair, well-ordered day,
In useful tenour calmly glides away;
In whom the eye of Malice never spied
Aught she could wish to spread, or you to hide,
Whose looks with words accord, and word with deed,
Receive the only screen you e'er can need!
Celia, when you oblige again.
Subdue that haughty Eye:
Rather than Insolence fustain,
Who would not wish to die?
A grateful Heart will own the Debt,
But, O! must feel it with Regret.
Hadst thou but livd before ye Gods were dead
That Heathens ownd ye world might thus have said.
'If any settled seat ye Muses use
'Thou art that seat or art thy self a Muse.
I have no heart to write verses to May;
I have no heart—yet I’m cheerful today;
I have no heart—she has won mine away
So—I have no heart to write verses to May.
Too far afield thy search. Nay, turn. Nay, turn.
At thine own elbow potent Memory stands,
Thy double, and eternity is cupped
In the pale hollow of those ghostly hands.
A sweet plaintive song did I hear,
And I fancied that she was the singer—
May emotions as pure, as that song set a-stir
Be the worst that the future shall bring her.
Across the sea
Come homeward ships
With freight of boys.
And still must we
Forgo the joys
Of meeting lips.
Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede
Of marble maidens round this urn divine:
But when your golden voice began to read,
The empty urn was filled with Chian wine.
