(XVIII. CENT.)
When first in Celia's ear I poured
A yet unpractised pray'r,
My trembling tongue sincere ignored
The aids of "sweet" and "fair."
I only said, as in me lay,
I'd strive her "worth" to reach;
She frowned, and turned her eyes away,—
So much for truth in speech.
Then Delia came. I changed my plan;
I praised her to her face;
I praised her features,—praised her fan,
Her lap-dog and her lace;
I swore that not till Time were dead
My passion should decay;
She, smiling, gave her hand, and said
'Twill last then—for a Day.
OF HIS MISTRESS.
(After Anthony Hamilton.)
To G. S.
She that I love is neither brown nor fair,
And, in a word her worth to say,
There is no maid that with her may
Compare.
Yet of her charms the count is clear, I ween:
There are five hundred things we see,
And then five hundred too there be,
Not seen.
Her wit, her wisdom are direct from Heaven:
But the sweet Graces from their store
A thousand finer touches more
Have given.
Her cheek's warm dye what painter's brush could note?
Beside her Flora would be wan
And white as whiteness of the swan
Her throat.