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O weep not, Lady, weep not so.;

Some ghostly comfort feek:
Let not vain sorrow, cive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy Frizr,

My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth,

That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss,

I'll e'ermore weep and figh: For thee I only wish'd to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, Lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain: For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make

grow , again,

Our joys as winged dreams do fly,

Why then should forrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.

O say not for thou holy Friar,

pray thee, say not so: For since my true-love dy'd for meg

'Tis meet my tears should flow,

And will he ne'er come again?

Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave.

For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;

The comeliest youth was he!--But he is dead and laid in his grave:

Alas, and woe is me!

Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more,

Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false

And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle, found,

Since summer trees were leafy.

Now say not fo, thou holy Friar,

I pray thee fay not so,
My love he has the truest heart:

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-loy'd youth,

And didst thou die for me?
Then farewel home; for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

Bat first upon my true-love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless elay.

Yet stay, fair Lady, rest a while

Beneath this cloyster wall: See, through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall.

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Yet stay, fair Lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray

Thy own true-love appears.

Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I fought; And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

But haply, for my year of grace

Is not yet past away,
Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay.

Now farewel grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart :
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part.

Α Τ Α

T A L E.

BY WILLIAM A E L MOTH, ESTE

Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac’d,
And heathen gods were all the taste,
Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will
To take an air on Ida's hill.
It chanc'd, as once with serious ken
He view'd from thence the ways of men,
He saw (and pity touch'd his breast)
The world by three foul fiends pofleft:
Pale Discord there, and Folly vain,
With haggard Vice, upheld their reign.
Then forth he sent his fummons high,
And call'd a senate of the fky.
Round as the winged orders prest,
Jove thus his sacred mind exprest:
“ Say, which of all this shining train
" Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain ?
“ For see! she drooping takes her flight,
“ While not a god supports her right."

7

He pausd---when from amidst the sky,
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony,
With one united zeal arose,
The triple tyrants to oppose.
That instant from the realms of day,
With generous speed, they took their way;
To Britain's ine direct their ear,
And enter'd with the evening star.

Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood:
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend :
Nor vain their hope; for records say,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.
They urge the traveller's common chance,
And every piteous plea advance :
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd,

i Admittance easy foon obtain'd.

The dame who own'd, adorn'd'the place
Three blooming daughters added grace.
The first, with gentlest manners blest

lui !
And temper sweet, each heart pofleft;
Who view'd her, catch'd the tender Hame:
And soft Amasia was her name.
In sprightly sense and polish'd air,

r
What-maid with Mira might compare!
While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre,
Did unrefifted love inspire.

2,01 M

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