 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
To CLOE,
Covering her Neck, with an Indian Handkerchief.
O! Let not, at your Lover's Cost,
O! Cloe, let not India boast,
That, with new Lustre, she can deck
The Native Beauties of your Neck:
Whate'er is pretty, may be seen
Underneath that gaudy Skreen;
Where the World, in Type, appears,
Lovely, Lucid Hemispheres,
The World! of all my Hopes and Fears;
Where Azure Lines a-cross do stray,
And wanton, in their Milky-way;
And where, my Eyes could, ever, rove,
And look, and long, and feed on Love.
O! Cloe, let not India boast,
That, with new Lustre, she can deck
The Native Beauties of your Neck:
Whate'er is pretty, may be seen
Underneath that gaudy Skreen;
2
Lovely, Lucid Hemispheres,
The World! of all my Hopes and Fears;
Where Azure Lines a-cross do stray,
And wanton, in their Milky-way;
And where, my Eyes could, ever, rove,
And look, and long, and feed on Love.
Foolish India! send no more
Faint and languid Colours o'er;
Paintings! brighter, livelier, far,
Nature's Pencil, has drawn, here:
All the Glories of the East,
Crowded are, in Cloe's Breast.
Aurora, when we see her rise,
And streak, with Red, the dawning Skies,
Does a Blush, less beauteous, wear,
Than that Maiden-Colour, here;
Which oft, thro' Modesty, is seen,
Never from a Guilt within.
Whose rosy Colours ne'er return,
But I, with equal Ardour, burn.
Faint and languid Colours o'er;
Paintings! brighter, livelier, far,
Nature's Pencil, has drawn, here:
All the Glories of the East,
Crowded are, in Cloe's Breast.
Aurora, when we see her rise,
And streak, with Red, the dawning Skies,
Does a Blush, less beauteous, wear,
Than that Maiden-Colour, here;
Which oft, thro' Modesty, is seen,
Never from a Guilt within.
3
But I, with equal Ardour, burn.
In Pity, O! ye Stars, incline
To warm my Cloe's Breast, like mine.
But fly, thou dull and envious Cover,
And relieve the wishing Lover.
When my Eyes no more can trace
The dazling Lustre of her Face,
Her snowy Neck they may explore,
And safely range its Beauties o'er.
To warm my Cloe's Breast, like mine.
But fly, thou dull and envious Cover,
And relieve the wishing Lover.
When my Eyes no more can trace
The dazling Lustre of her Face,
Her snowy Neck they may explore,
And safely range its Beauties o'er.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |