_T._ Can I forget the fairest of her kind, Beauteous in person, fairer still in mind? 20 Can I forget she sooth'd my heart to rest, And still'd the troubl'd motion in my breast? Can I, by soothing song or friendship led, Forget to mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead? _D._ Another fair may court thee to her arms, Display her graces, and reveal her charms; May catch thy wand'ring eye, dispel thy woe, And give to sorrow final overthrow. No longer, then, thy heart-felt anguish shed, Nor mourn, in solitude, Cordelia dead. 30 _T._ Sooner shall lions fierce forget to roam, And peaceful walk with gentle lambs at home; Sooner shall Discord love her ancient hate, And Peace and Love with Rage incorporate; Sooner shall turtles with the sparrow wed, Than I forget my lov'd Cordelia dead. _D._ Must then Dorintha ever sigh in vain, And Cælia breathe to echoing groves her pain? Must Chloe hope in vain to steel that heart In which each nymph would gladly share a part? 40 Must these, dejected shepherd, be betray'd. And victims fall, because Cordelia's dead? _T._ By those who love, my friend, it stands confest, No second flame can fill a lover's breast: For me no more the idle scenes of life Shall vex with envy, hatred, noise, or strife; But here, in melancholy form array'd, I'll ever mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead. G. EBBARE. CUPID. [November, 1772.] _Whoe'er thou art, thy master know; He has been, is, or shall be so._ What is he, who clad in arms, Hither seems in haste to move, Bringing with him soft alarms, Fears the heart of man to prove; Yet attended too by charms-- Is he Cupid, God of Love? Yes, it is, behold him nigh, Odd compound of ease and smart; Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh Grief and joy, and love impart; 10 Pleasure dances in her eye, Yet she seems to grieve at heart. Lo! a quiver by his side, Arm'd with darts, a fatal store! See him, with a haughty pride, Ages, sexes, all devour; Yet, as pleasure is describ'd, Glad we meet the tyrant's power. Doubts and cares before him go, Canker'd jealousy behind; 20 Round about him spells he'll throw, Scatt'ring with each gust of wind On the motley crew below, Who, like him, are render'd blind. This is love! a tyrant kind, Giving extacy and pain; Fond deluder of the mind, Ever feigning not to feign; Whom no savage laws can bind, None escape his pleasing chain. 30 G. EBBARE. SONG. [November, 1772.]