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Who sees you
shine in Wildair's part,
But sudden feels his bosom panting?
Your very sex receive the dart,
And almost think there's nothing wanting.
A NEW SONG.
ONCE more I'll tune my vocal shell,
Ye greater bards the lyre should hit,
The sun first rising in the morn,
That paints the dew-bespangled thorn,
Does not so much the day adorn,
As does my lovely Peggy.
And when in Thetis lap of rest,
Were she array'd in rustic weed,
With her a cottage would delight,
The zephyr's air, the violet blows,
He does not half the sweets disclose,
I stole a kiss the other day,
And, trust me, nought but truth I say,
The fragrant breath of blooming May,
Was not so sweet as Peggy,
While bees from flow'r to flow'r shall rove,
Or stately swans the waters love,
And when death with his pointed dart,
My words shall be when I depart,
"Adieu my lovely Peggy!"
TO MRS. WOFFINGTON.
(Written in July 1744.)
IN IMITATION OF
Ulla si juris tibi pejerati
Pona, Barine, nocuisset unquam.
HOR. Lib. 2, Od. 8.
IF heav'n upon thy perjur'd head,
Had the least mark of vengeance shed,
For all thy hate to truth;
Had ev'n diminish'd any grace,
I would believe its pow'rs; but you
The more you cheat, we trust the more,
That makes fresh beauties rise.