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198
A LOVE EPISTLE,
From a Fortune Hunter, at Bath, to a witty young Heiress.
Ah! would I was a shepherd swain,To watch my sheep on Lansdown plain;
With sweet Eliza by my side,
My rural, envied, charming bride:
Then sure my lambs would never roam,
Her song would keep them all at home.
To please my beautiful Eliza,
I'd walk, ye Gods, from this to Pisa;
Mount in Lunardi's worst balloon,
And colonize the faithless moon.
Your cheeks are prettier far than roses,
Your breath's more sweet than Paris posies:
Yet why should I thus paint your charms,
When Fate may hold me from your arms.
The little birds that rove so free,
Are ten times happier than me;
Say, my Eliza, must I sigh,
Ah, must I languish, must I die?
Monday Night.
POLYDORE.
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