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Then lovely Nature is expell'd,
And Friendship is romantic held;

Then Prudence comes with hundred eyes:

The Veil is rent: the Vision flies.

The dear Illufions will not last;

The æra of Enchantment's past;

The wild Romance of Life is done;

The real History is begun.

The Sallies of the Soul are o'er,

The Feast of Fancy is no more;

And ill the banquet is fupply'd

By form, by gravity, by pride.

د

Ye Gods! whatever ye withhold,

Let my affections ne'er grow old;

Ne'er may the human glow depart,

Nor Nature yield to frigid Art!

Still

!

Still may the generous bosom burn,

Tho' doom'd to bleed o'er Beauty's urn;

And still the friendly face appear,

Tho' moisten'd with a tender tear!

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Y

E Virgins! fond to be admir'd,

With mighty rage of conquest fir'd,

And univerfal sway;

Who heave th' uncover'd bosom high,
And roll a fond, inviting eye,

On all the circle gay!

You miss the fine and fecret art

To win the castle of the heart,

For which you all contend;

The coxcomb tribe may crowd your train,

But you will never, never gain

A lover, or a friend.

If

If this your passion, this your praise,

To fhine, to dazzle, and to blaze,

You may be call'd divine :

But not a youth beneath the sky

Will say in secret, with a sigh,

"O were that Maiden mine!""

You marshal, brilliant, from the box,

Fans, feathers, diamonds, castled locks,

Your magazine of arms;

But 'tis the sweet sequester'd walk,

The whispering hour, the tender talk,
That gives your genuine charms,

The nymph-like robe, the natural grace,

The smile, the native of the face,

Refinement without art;

The eye where pure affection beams,

The tear from tenderness that streams,

The accents of the heart;

The

The trembling frame, the living cheek,

Where, like the morning, blushes break

To crimson o'er the breast;

The look where sentiment is seen,

Fine passions moving o'er the mien,
And all the foul exprest;

Your beauties these: with these you shine,

And reign on high by right divine,

The fovereigns of the world;

Then to your court the nations flow;

The Muse with flowers the path will strew,

Where Venus' car is hurl'd.

From dazzling deluges of snow,

From Summer noon's meridian glow,

We turn our aking eye,

To Nature's robe of vernal green,

To the blue curtain all ferene,

Of an Autumnal sky.

The

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