Where-e'er fhe turn'd, the pulses beat

With new recruits of genial heat;

And in her train the birds appear,

To match for all the coming year.
Rais'd on a bank where daizies grew,

And vi'lets intermix'd a blue,

She finds the boy she went to find
A thousand pleasures wait behind,
Afide, a thousand arrows lye,

But all unfeather'd wait to fly.

When they met, the Dame and Boy,

Dancing Graces, idle Joy,

Wanton Smiles, and airy Play,

Confpir'd to make the scene be gay;
Lové pair'd the birds through all the grove,
And Nature bid them fing to Love,
Sitting, hopping, flutt'ring, fing,
And pay their tribute from the wing,
To fledge the fhafts that idly lye,
And yet unfeather'd wait to fly.

'Tis thus, when spring renews the blood,
They meet in ev'ry trembling wood,
And thrice they make the plumes agree,
And ev'ry dart they mount with three,
And ev'ry dart can boast a kind,

Which fuits each proper turn of mind.
From the tow'ring eagle's plume

The gen'rous hearts accept their doom:
Shot by the peacock's painted eye
The vain and airy lovers dye:

For careful dames and frugal men,
The shafts are speckled by the hen.
The pyes and parrots deck the darts,
When prattling wins the panting hearts;
When from the voice the paffions fpring,
The warbling finch affords a wing:
Together, by the sparrow stung,
Down fall the wanton and the young:
And fledg'd by geese the weapons fly,
When others love they know not why.

All

All this (as late I chanc'd to rove)
I learn'd in yonder waving grove.

And fee, fays Love, who call'd me near,
How much I deal with Nature here,

How both fupport a proper part,

She gives the feather, I the dart:
Then cease for fouls averfe to figh,
If Nature crofs ye, so do I;

My weapon there unfeather'd flies,

And shakes and fhuffles thro' the skies.

But if the mutual charms I find

By which she links you mind to mind,
They wing my fhafts, I poize the darts,

And strike from both, through both your hearts.

ANACREONTIC.

AY Bacchus liking Eftcourt's wine,

GA

A noble meal bespoke us;

And for the guest that were to dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.

The God near Cupid drew his chair,

Near Comus, Jocus plac'd;

For wine makes Love forget its care,

And mirth exalts a feast.

The more to please the sprightly God,
Each sweet engaging Grace

Put on fone cloaths to come abroad,
And took a waiter's place.

Then Cupid nam'd at every glass,

A lady of the fky;

While Bacchus fwore he'd drink the lafs,

And had it bumper-high.

Fat Comus toft his brimmers o'er,
And always got the most ;

Jocus took care to fill him more,

Whene'er he mift the toaft.

They

They call'd and drank at every touch;

He fill'd and drank again ;

And if the Gods can take too much,

'Tis faid, they did fo then.

Gay Bacchus little Cupid ftung,

By reck'ning his deceits;

And Cupid mock'd his stamm'ring tongue,
With all his stagg'ring gaits:

And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways,

And tales without a jeft;

While Comus call'd his witty plays

But waggeries at best.

Such talk foon fet them all at odds;

And, had I Homer's pen,

I'd fing ye, how they drank like Gods,

And how they fought like men.