When in the crowd yours undistinguish'd lies, For to my state the hopes of common peace, Since, dying, I must be no more your slave. WOMAN'S A HONOUR. SON G. I. LOVE bid me hope, and I obey'd; Phillis continued ftill unkind : Then you may e'en defpair, he faid, Honour's got in, and keeps her heart, This huffing Honour domineers In breafts, where he alone has place : But if true generous Love appears, The hector dares not fhew his face. IV. Let IV. Let me ftill languish and complain, Be most inhumanly deny'd: I have some pleasure in my pain, She lives a wretch for Honour's fake. Whofe tyrant does moft cruel prove, The difference is not hard to make. VI. Confider Real Honour then, You'll find hers cannot be the fame; 'Tis noble confidence in men, In women mean miftruftful fhame. GRECIAN KINDNESS. A S O N G. I. HE utmoft grace the Greeks could fhew, Was with their arms to let them go, II. There the kind deity of wine Kifs'd the soft wanton god of love; U 2 This clapp'd his wings, that prefs'd his vine; THE MISTRESS. A SON G. I. AN age, in her embraces past, Would feem a winter's day; Where life and light, with envious haste, But, oh! how flowly minutes roll, That fed my love, which is my foul, It languishes and dies. III. For then, no more a foul but shade, It mournfully does move; And haunts my breast, by abfence made The living tomb of love. IV. You wiser men despise me not; Whofe love-fick fancy raves, On fhades of fouls, and heaven knows what : Short ages live in graves. V. Whene'er V. Whene'er those wounding eyes, fo full Of fweetness you did fee, Had you not been profoundly dull, You had gone mad like me. VI. Nor cenfure us, you who perceive Sigh and lament, complain and grieve, VII. Alas! 'tis facred jealousy, Love rais'd to an extreme ; The only proof, 'twixt them and me, VIII. Fantastic fancies fondly move, IX. Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears, 1 A A SONG. I. BSENT from thee I languish ftill; II. Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That tears my fix'd heart from my love. When wearied with a world of woe To thy fafe bofom I retire, Where love, and peace, and truth, does flow, Left, once more wandering from that heaven, Faithlefs to thee, falfe, unforgiven, A S O N G. I. PHILLIS, be gentler, I advise, When beauty on its death-bed lies, 'Tis high time to repent. II. Such |