4.

    But since the chaste kiss,
    Of this magical Miss,
  Such wonderful transports produce,
    Since the “world you forget,”
    “When your lips once have met,”
  My Counsel will get but abuse.

5.

    You say “when I rove”
    “I know nothing of love,”
  ’Tis true I am given to range,
    If I rightly remember,
    I’ve kiss’d a good number,
  But there’s pleasure at least in a change.

6.

    I ne’er will advance,
    By the rules of romance,
  To humour a whimsical fair,
    Though a smile may delight,
    Yet a frown wont affright,
  Or drive me to dreadful despair.

7.

    Whilst my blood is thus warm,
    I ne’er shall reform,
  To mix in the Platonist’s school;
    Of this I am sure,
    Was my passion so pure,
  My mistress must think me a fool.

8.

    Though the kisses are sweet,
    Which voluptuously meet,
  Of kissing I ne’er was so fond,
    As to make me forget,
    Though our lips oft have met,
  That still there was something beyond.

9.

    And if I should shun,
    Every woman for one,
  Whose image must fill my whole breast;
    Whom I must prefer,
    And sigh but for her,
  What an insult ’twould be to the rest!

10.

    Now, Strephon, good bye,
    I cannot deny,
  Your passion appears most absurd,
    Such love as you plead,
    Is pure love indeed,
  For it only consists in the word.

* * * * *

THE CORNELIAN.

  No specious splendour of this stone,
    Endears it to my memory ever,
  With lustre only once it shone,
    But blushes modest as the giver.

2.

  Some who can sneer at friendship’s ties,
    Have for my weakness oft reprov’d me,
  Yet still the simple gift I prize,
    For I am sure, the giver lov’d me.

3.

  He offered it with downcast look,
    As fearful that I might refuse it,
  I told him when the gift I took,
    My only fear should be to lose it.

4.

  This pledge attentively I view’d,
    And sparkling as I held it near,
  Methought one drop the stone bedew’d,
    And ever since I’ve lov’d a tear.

5.

  Still to adorn his humble youth,
    Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield,
  But he who seeks the flowers of truth,
    Must quit the garden for the field.

6.

  ’Tis not the plant uprear’d in sloth,
    Which beauty shews, and sheds perfume,
  The flowers which yield the most of both,
    In nature’s wild luxuriance bloom.