University of Virginia Library

TO PERILLA.

Perilla! to thy fates resign'd,
Think not what years are gone:
While Atalanta lookt behind
The golden fruit roll'd on.
Albeit a mother may have lost
The plaything at her breast,
Albeit the one she cherisht most,
It but endears the rest.
Youth, my Perilla, clings on Hope,
And looks into the skies

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For brighter day; she fears to cope
With grief, she shrinks at sighs.
Why should the memory of the past
Make you and me complain?
Come, as we could not hold it fast,
We'll play it o'er again.