Beneath some oak's projecting shade, Where the shot rays scarce passage find, See many a rustick youth and maid In languid attitudes reclin'd---- Mark! with features all relenting, And with down-cast eyes consenting, 160 How each nymph listens to the amorous tale; Her half-bar'd bosom, panting with desire, Expos'd, as if to catch the cooling gale; But more, perhaps, to fan the lover's fire. XVII. Ye dear deceptions! how ye move The breast to long forgotten love? Luxurious scenes! how ye excite The traces of distinct delight! E'en now around this poor half-frozen heart Agnizing it's accustom'd smart, 170 Like some mild lambent flame the passion plays; And, vanquish'd by ideal charms, I sink in the imagin'd arms Of some sweet PHILLIS of my youthful days. XVIII. But, lo! the Portrait of yon hoary sage From whose grave lore I learnt in youth Many a rigid moral truth, Frowns me again to cold unfeeling age--- How are the soft emotions checkt While tow'rd me he seems to direct, 180 As if alive, his conscious eye; At whose austere reproving glance, I wake reluctant from my trance, And feel with pain each pleasing passion die!--- XIX. VENUS yokes her purple doves, In an instant dispossest, All the little sportive loves Hurry---hurry from my breast--- And the whole charming vision flits away Like the night's golden dream at break of envious day-- 190 XX. Poor human life! how short the date Assign'd thee by relentless Fate!---- Poor transient Beauty! tender flower! Still shorter thy allotted hour!---- Then stretch the canvass---quick, my Friend, Thy pencil seize---thy work attend--- E'en exempt from deforming diseases, How it fades by the torches of Time; Every moment that flows Steals the gloss from the rose; 200 Then catch the bright hue while it pleases, And fix the fair face in it's prime. XXI. Nay-- thus, great Artist, has thy hand To half the high-born beauty of the land A permanence ensur'd, And from th' attacks of wrinkling age, And from the pustule's venom'd rage Th' untarnish'd form secur'd--- XXII. It's dear resemblance has at least Been in thy faithful lines exprest; 210 In thy firm colours still persists to bloom; Nor does it cease the heart t' alarm, Nor does it cease the eye to charm, E'en when the real Fair is mouldering in her tomb-- XXIII.