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Cupid and Campaspe.

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cardes for kisses ; Cupid pay'd :
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and teame of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his browe,
And then the dimple of his chinne ;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
0 Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of mee?


Adieu, Adieu! My Natibe Shore.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;
The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee;

My native Land, Good Night!

Amor et Campaspe.

LUDEBANT simul alea Cupido et
Campaspe mea pignore osculorum.
Hæc rapto fruitur : sed ille postis
Arcuque et pharetra, suis sagittis,
Materno pare passerum et columbis,
Jactu perdit et illa ; perditisque,
Promit curalium labri, rosamque
Miris ingenitam modis genarum;
His et marmora frontis et latentem
Addit purpureo sub ore risum;
Quæcumque opposuit, rapit puella.
Certat in geminos dehinc ocellos,
Exsurgitque oculis minor Cupido.
O factum male vel Deo ! sed in me,
Mortali misero, ah quid est futurum ?

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“TERRA paterna, vale! vitrei trans marmora ponti

Labitur ex oculis terra paterna meis : Flamina rauca sonant, reboant in litora fluctus,

Spumea cum strepitu nubila mergus arat. Hunc, vespertinis qui sol se condit in undis,

Urgemus celeri subsequimurque fuga. Paulum igitur valeas tu, sol pulcerrime, tuque

Terra, mihi longum destituenda, vale !

“ A few short hours and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

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“Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage,

Or tremble at the gale ?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

· Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind :
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee-and One above.

“ Efferet Eoo mox se redivivus ab æstu

Phoebus, et incipiet jam novus ire dies ; Tum mare conspiciam mollesque per æthera ccelos;

Sed non materni reddita regna soli. Stat domus heu ! deserta ; patrum silet aula meorum;

Nec vetus est solito fervidus igne focus ; Quin steriles herbæ dominantur pariete in ipso,

Et canis occlusas ejulat ante fores.

"Huc, puer, huc venias! venias, positoque dolore,

Quæ sit mærendi jam tibi causa, refer. Anne reformidas malesani turbinis iram,

Anne times nimiis ne furat unda minis ?
Pone metus, stantemque occulis i comprime guttam ;

Firma per æquoreas hæc ratis ibit aquas;
Nec, qui perspicuum rapidis secat æthera pennis,

Accipiter cursu liberiore volat.”

Sæviat ira Noti, montes volvantur aquarum,

Me nec aquæ tumidæ nec movet ira Noti. Ne mirere tamen cura quod vexer, et ægri

Quod subito luctus pectora nostra premant: Nempe abiens carumque patrem matremque reliqui ;

Omnibus abreptis tu mihi solus ades, Tuque-Deusque manet: mihi tu nunc unus amicus ;

Tu pro matre mihi, pro patre solus eris.

• My father bless'd me fervently,

Yet did not much complain ; But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come back again.' • Enough, enough, my little lad!

Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had,

Mine own would not be dry.

“Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?

Or shiver at the gale ?”
• Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

• My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?'
Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.

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