7 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 8 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, And made yourselves fine for--a place in her breast: You put on your colours to pleasure her eye, To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die. 9 How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return! While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn: Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for't when she is here. Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. 10 Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; But what swain is so silly to live without love! No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair; Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE. Little tube of mighty power, Charmer of an idle hour, Object of my warm desire, Lip of wax and eye of fire; And thy snowy taper waist, With my finger gently braced; And thy pretty swelling crest, With my little stopper pressed; And the sweetest bliss of blisses, Breathing from thy balmy kisses. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men; Who when again the night returns, When again the taper burns, When again the cricket's gay, (Little cricket full of play,) Can afford his tube to feed With the fragrant Indian weed: Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men. AWAY! LET NOUGHT TO LOVE DISPLEASING. 1 Away! let nought to love displeasing, My Winifreda, move your care; Let nought delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 2 What though no grants of royal donors, With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll shine in more substantial honours, And, to be noble, we'll be good. 3 Our name while virtue thus we tender, Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke; And all the great ones, they shall wonder How they respect such little folk. 4 What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess; We'll find, within our pittance, plenty, And be content without excess.