"Dearest! let's the insect capture
Come! I long to make my prey
Yonder pretty little dear!"
1767-9. ——- APPARENT DEATH.
WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;
He died of nothing—by mere chance was slain.
But is he really dead?—oh, that I cannot prove:
A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again.
1767-9. ——- NOVEMBER SONG.
To the great archer—not to him
To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim
With clouds to overrun—