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DOTTATOR ET LINEATOR LOQUITUR.
(Explanation of the Platc.)
Their naked dames, let fools adore 'em,
How gaily in the dance they meet,
As lordly topers they can shine,
He's mad, the well bred artist cries,
Mad as he is with all your pride,
Then masters of all ages, yield,
LOVE's wings were never made to soar,
Among the busy haunts of care;
For Love can find no music there.
Where Pleasure reigns, he passes by,
Or hovers fearful o'er the train, For if his bow be moisten’d there,
'Twill ne'er be strung aright again.
The rural cot, the shady grove,
The mossy bank, and silent glen, Are still the soft retreats of Love,
From malice far, and far from men.
The little urchin there can see,
His victims loitering as they go, Can mark in some the signs of glee,
In others mark the signs of wo.
To these he cries, “ Your moments short,
How wisely ye devote to joy, With sacred sweets ye idly sport,
How soon those plunder'd sweets will cloy."
To those “ I find my arrows here,
Have pierc'd the mark with surer aim; The wound is deep that draws a tear,
Weep on, weep on, it feeds the fame.”
How true the maxims time will prove,
When transient passion is decay'd; But oh! the tears of constant love Will ever be with bliss repaid.
Let not the yawning grave receive
The victim of Affection's pow'r, Without one pitying word's reprieve,
To sooth his last, his dying hour.
The puny love that seeks return,
Is selfish when compared with mine: I only ask that on my urn
My name may be inscribed with thine.
Canst thou so small a boon deny,
The slave of unrequitted love? Couldst thou, unmoved, behold me die,
Nor let me thy forgiveness prove?
Oh! no-thy soul of every grace,
Of every Virtue is the seat;
Proclaimed thee Pity's soft retreat.
Speak then the heav'nly word, “ Forgive,"
And life, unmurmuring, I resign;