THE QUESTION. TO LISETTA.

WHAT nymph should I admire, or trust,
But Cloe, beauteous Cloe, just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom, in song, repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, pr'ythee tell the. rest.

LISETTA'S REPLY.

SURE, Cloe just, and Cloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care:
But when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?

But when your cares to her you sing,

Yet dare not tell her whence they spring;

Does it not more afflict your heart,
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Cloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see,
Whom Cloe loves, and who loves me.

THE GARLAND.

THE pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flowers she wore along the day:

And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed.)

Undrest at evening when she found

Their odours lost, their colours past; She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain

This change of humour: pr'ythee, tell:
That falling tear-What does it mean?

She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one:
At morn both flourish bright and gay,

Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung; The amorous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung;

I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who died to-day,

Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display

The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.

THE LADY WHO OFFERS HER LOOKINGGLASS TO VENUS.1

VENUS, take my votive glass;
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.

CLOE JEALOUS.

FORBEAR to ask me, why I weep;
Vex'd Cloe to her shepherd said;
"Tis for my two poor straggling sheep
Perhaps, or for my squirrel dead.

For mind I what you late have writ?
Your subtle questions, and replies ;
Emblems, to teach a female wit

The ways, where changing Cupid flies.

Your riddle purpos'd to rehearse

The general power that beauty has; But why did no peculiar verse

Describe one charm of Cloe's face?

1 Taken from an epigram of Plato. See Rambler, Number 143.

The glass, which was at Venus' shrine,
With such mysterious sorrow laid:
The garland (and you call it mine)
Which show'd how youth and beauty fade.

Ten thousand trifles light as these

Nor can my rage, nor anger move:
She should be humble, who would please;
And she must suffer, who can love.

When in my glass I chanc'd to look ;
Of Venus what did I implore?

That every grace which thence I took,

Should know to charm my Damon more.

Reading thy verse; Who heeds, said I,
If here or there his glances flew?
O free for ever be his eye,

Whose heart to me is always true.

My bloom indeed, my little flower
Of beauty quickly lost its pride;
For, sever'd from its native bower,
It on thy glowing bosom died.

Yet car'd I not what might presage,

Or withering wreath, or fleeting youth; Love I esteem'd more strong than age,

And time less permanent than truth.