Can one poor humble verse, my fair, Of love the power and truth declare? Can genius, join’d with words, impart Its strong dominion in my heart? Ah! no; for all my love must be But known by deeds of love for thee. TO A LADY. Tell me, dearest, wilt thou prove Faithful in returns of love? I can never cease to own Thou art dear to me alone; I can never cease to be Fraught with faithful love for thee. TO A LADY. Oh! could I hear thee once declare, That fond affection lives for me! Oh! could I once delighted share The sweet return of love from thee! I, who no other object know Which could my heart from thee estrange, Confess a love which joy or woe, Or life or death, could never change. TO A LADY. My love to thee I fain would prove, But can a letter speak my love? Or can a pledge so small reveal A passion which I can’t conceal? No; love by trifles, thus exprest, Shows but the shade of love at best. TO A LADY. Sweet are the thoughts, when true love burns Within a faithful breast; And sweet’s the love that meets returns By grateful love confest. TO A LADY. Could you persuade the constant dove To leave his mate, inconstant prove, And lonely thro’ the woodlands rove, I might deceive the girl I love; But ne’er till then will I agree To quit my love, to part with thee. FROM A PAINTER. My _pencil_ I would take in hand To _paint_ a face so fair, But all the skill I can command Is useless I declare: My blended _colours_ when I view And think upon thy face, _Carmine_ and _pearl_, at sight of you, Must hold a distant place; Yet if your _portrait_ you will find, Then with my wish comply, Come hither, and, to ease my mind, You’ll find it in each eye; But far more perfect in my heart Is that dear form of thine, Then let me share an equal part With thee, sweet Valentine. THE ANSWER. What can I say to things so fine, Which you have sent to me, For, such a pretty Valentine I ne’er before did see? Who would have thought this homely face Could thus defy your art, And that my _picture_ you could trace No where but in your heart? If flattery can a female please, You’re master of _design_, That _pencil_ you can use with ease, My _painting_ Valentine. FROM A MALTSTER. My barley is fine, and good my kiln, In making malt, none has more skill, And though my horses oft are blind, My love to you is not, you’ll find; What, tho’ my granary is well fill’d, As any maltster e’er beheld; Yet, what is all this store to me, Unless that I could purchase thee? Come, then, and all my malt command, I’ll put the staff into your hand, My barley, every grain, be thine, As you I’ve chose my Valentine. THE ANSWER.