[Footnote iv: _And all his errors._--[4to] ] [Footnote v: _He died, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight Of cares oppressing our unhappy state. But lo! another Hercules appeared._ [4to] ] [Footnote vi: _He too is dead who still our England propp'd With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd._ [4to] ] [Footnote vii: _And give the palm._ [4to] ] [Footnote viii: _But let not canker'd Calumny assail And round.-- [4to] ] [Footnote ix: _And friends and foes._ [4to] ] [Footnote x: '--would dare to ask.' [410]] TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. [1] These locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine; With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic? Why should you weep, like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish? Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights to sigh half frozen; In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden? For gardens seem, by one consent, (Since Shakespeare set the precedent; Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) To form the place of assignation. Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire; Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely, in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration. In Italy, I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid: Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation. Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Within your mansion let me greet you: [i.] 'There', we can love for hours together, Much better, in such snowy weather, Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, That ever witness'd rural loves; 'Then', if my passion fail to please, [ii.] Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter, But curse my fate, for ever after. [2] [Footnote 1: These lines are addressed to the same Mary referred to in the lines beginning, "This faint resemblance of thy charms." ('Vide ante', p. 32.)]