ROSE AYLMER. A h, what avails the sceptered race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
RUBIES. O ften I have heard it said That her lips are ruby-red. Little heed I what they say, I have seen as red as they. Ere she smiled on other men, Real rubies were they then. When she kissed me once in play, Rubies were less bright than they, And less bright were those which shone In the palace of the Sun. Will they be as bright again? Not if kissed by other men.
THE FAULT IS NOT MINE. T he fault is not mine if I love you too much, I loved you too little too long, Such ever your graces, your tenderness such, And the music the heart gave the tongue. A time is now coming when Love must be gone, Tho’ he never abandoned me yet. Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown, Our follies (ah can you?) forget.
UNDER THE LINDENS. U nder the lindens lately sat A couple, and no more, in chat; I wondered what they would be at Under the lindens. I saw four eyes and four lips meet, I heard the words, “How sweet! how sweet!” Had then the Faeries given a treat Under the lindens? I pondered long and could not tell What dainty pleased them both so well: Bees! bees! was it your hydromel Under the lindens?
SIXTEEN. I n Clementina’s artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see,— And are the roses of sixteen Enough for me? Lucilla asks, if that be all, Have I not culled as sweet before? Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall I still deplore. I now behold another scene, Where Pleasure beams with heaven’s own light,— More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright: Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty, who, when she goes, Is gone forever!
IANTHE. T hank Heaven, Ianthe, once again Our hands and ardent lips shall meet, And Pleasure, to assert his reign, Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: Then cease repeating while you mourn, “I wonder when he will return.” Ah wherefore should you so admire The flowing words that fill my song, Why call them artless, yet require “Some promise from that tuneful tongue?” I doubt if heaven itself could part A tuneful tongue and tender heart.

ONE LOVELY NAME. O ne lovely name adorns my song, And, dwelling in the heart, For ever falters at the tongue, And trembles to depart.
FORSAKEN. M other, I can not mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry; Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But oh, who ever felt as I! No longer could I doubt him true, All other men may use deceit; He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.