George Granville

Bright as the day, and like the morning, fair, Such Cloe is—and common as the air.

Important truths still let your fable hold, And moral mysteries with art unfold.

There is no heav'n like mutual love.

There is no vulture like despair.

But tho' we fetch from Italy and France Our fopperies of tune, and mode of dance, Our sturdy Britons scorn to borrow sense.

The liberal are secure alone, For what we frankly give, for ever is our own.

Youth is the proper time for love, And age is virtue's season.

In quiet shades, content with rural sports, Give me a life, remote from guilty courts, Where free from hopes, or fears, in humble ease, Unheard of I may live, and die in peace.

In vain we plant, we build, our stores increase, If conscience roots up all our inward peace.

The great, the vile, the coward, and the brave, Are food alike for worms, companions in the grave. The prince and parasite together lye, No fortune can exalt, but Death will climb as high.

Thy thoughts to nobler meditations give, And study how to die, not how to live.

I'll be this abject thing no more, Love, give me back my heart again.

Since truth and constancy are vain, Since neither love, nor sense of pain, Nor force of reason, can persuade, Then let example be obey'd.

'Tis impious pleasure to delight in harm. And beauty shou'd be kind, as well as charm.

But ah! in vain from Fate we fly! For, first and last, as all must die, So 'tis as much decreed above, That, first or last, we all must love.

The sun is set—but see in bright array What hosts of heav'nly light recruit the day! Love in a shining galaxy appears Triumphant still.

But ah! what mighty magick can assuage A woman's envy, and a bigot's rage?

Beauty by no complexion is defin'd, Is of all colours, and to none confin'd.

Scarce hadst thou time t'unsheath thy conqu'ring blade; It did but glitter, and the rebels fled.

So sang the syrens, with enchanting sound, Enticing all to listen and be drown'd.

Our present joy is sweeter by past pain, To love and heav'n, by suff'ring we attain.

Marriage the happiest bond of love might be, If hands were only join'd when hearts agree.

Of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, and love in vain.

Who to a woman trusts his peace of mind, Trusts a frail bark, with a tempestuous wind.