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When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
A SONG ON FANCY. TELL me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head;
Let us all ring Fancy's knell:
ARIEL's SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there lurk I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie, There I couch when owls do cry ; On the bat's back I do fly, After sun-set merrily ; Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, ,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages,
Fear no more the frown o' th' great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke, Care no more to clothe and eat,
To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear no slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.
SYMPATHIZING LOVE. S it fell upon a day A
In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the mournful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity: Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Tereu, tereu, by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon my own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain ; Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee, King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing ;
Whilst as fickle fortune smiled,
Pity but he was a king,"
'Twas from cheeks that shame the rose;
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY.
SONNET. FAINT amorist! what, dost thou think
To taste love's honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter TR Elysian fields, that darest not venture In Charon's barge! a lover's mind Mast use to sail with every wind! He that loves, and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee! 'tis to shew it That thy coldness makes her do it. Is she silent, is she mute ? Silence fully grants thy suit. Doth she pout and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come. Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure, Doth she cross thy suit with “ No?" Tash! she loves to hear thee woo.. Doth she call the faith of men In question ? nay, she loves thee then ; And if e'er she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hittst her not. He that, after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.