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WHY will my wanton maid inquire,
How many kisses I desire ?
Go, count the conscious stars, that see
How fond I nightly steal to thee;
Count every beaming glare, that flies
From those more radiant stars—thine eyes :
Count every pant, that heaves thy breast,
When to my panting bosom press’d:
Go, count the loves, that ambusk'd dwell
In every dimple's rosy dell,
Or, fluttering, play on frolic wings
Through every tress that drops in rings:
Count every charm of every kind,
That decks thy face, thy form, thy mind;
Then, Lesbia, nor till then inquire,
How many kisses I desire. -



RETIR’D from tumult and the public care,
While modest Nelson breathes his Mertoy air,
Why will a Nation sigh to give him pow'r,
And load with anxious weight his easy hour ?
Why force the Hero from his rich repose,
Whose happy spirit calm’d that Nation's woes?
Yet, mad for War, should hostile hosts arise,
Fierce for th' attack, the British Eagle flies,
Careless of case, and DANGER's spectre form,
Pants for his prey, and triumphs in the storm.
Pleas'd with his fate, he crawls not to be seen,
Too proud to teaze with pray’r a King or Qucen;
To flatter, with a parasitic face,
And trip up FRIENDSHIP's heels to gain a place.
The Man who daring rush'd in thunder forth,
And smote th’imperious Tyrants of the North ;

Round Royal mis’ry wav'd his Guardian wing, And snatch'd from chains and fate a trembling

King; Bade mournful EGYPT ʼmidst her bondage smile, And gave another Wonder to the Nile; Disdains the servile arts that MEANNESS tries, To mount a flimsy bubble to the skies! Lodg’d in the bosom of his fav’rite shade, How should a venal wish his heart invade, Where FriendSHIP, Mirth, the clouds of

CARE defy, And heartfelt pleasure beams from ev'ry eye; Nay, more the happy mansion to illume, Where GENIUS sparkles, and the GRACEs bloom?

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O GENTILE Nymph, of Cornish lond the Queen,

[love: Whom all our youth behold with rapt'rous Whose heart eclipseth e’en thy beauty's sheen, Read PETRARCH's sorrows, and with tears

approve: A tear from thee, surpassing all his fame, Embalms with immortality his name.

At PETRARCH's fate the heart with grief mote

glow, Who frequent woo'd the Fair, but woo'd in vain : Thy turtle eyen in streames will certes flow

At sorrows, that for peerless LAURA plain, When pale entomb'd her lovely limbs were laid, And redbreasts sooth’d with ditties sweet her shade. Rash bard! What folly taught thine eyen to gaze

Onher, who ne'er could bless thy longing arms? What dæmon urg'd thee midst her beauty's blaze,

Bereft of smallest hope to win her charms ? Well did thine heart deserve sic mickle woes, That lost in wild romaunce its dear repose.

Yet, Petrarch ! like thyself, a Bard betray'd

By smiles of Beauty, Wisdom's voice I slight; Hopeless I glote upon as fair a maid

As ever charm’d the golden eye of light. Then let me blame no more thy lovelorn line, Perchaunce thy LAURA mote compare with


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