Thou shalt eat curds and cream All the year lafting; And drink the crystal stream, Wigge and whey, while thou burst, And ramble-berry, Pye-lid and pafty cruft, Pears, plums, and cherry; Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weaven skin; Yet all not worth a pin! Phillida flouts me! Fair maidens, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair, Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nofe: What wanton figns are those ? Phillida flouts me ! I cannot work and fleep All at a feafon; Love wounds my heart so deep, Without all reason. I'gin to pine away, Penn'd in a meadow. I fhall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year, And all for very fear! Phillida flouts me ! From the fame, by D. Stroad. ANSWER TO "THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY," RETURN, my joys! and hither bring Free wand'ring thoughts, not tied to mufe, upon: Then take no care, but only to be jolly, This little piece is modern; but it is so beautiful an imitation of the old poets, that it is prefumed every reader will fee it with pleasure in this collection. THE IVY. How yonder ivy courts the oak, And yield me to a smiling face. How fain the tree would fwell its rind! So wastes the vigour of my days. A lafs, forlorn for lack of grace, For now fhe rules me with her look, And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilft, by a strange enchantment ftruck, My nobler will recoils in vain. And foon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. But, had the oak denied its shade, Might still have pin'd in want and woe: Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. THE END. LONDON, PRINTED BY T. RICKABY, 1790. |