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On the Author's receiving a Sprig of Myrtle from a young Lady.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On the Author's receiving a Sprig of Myrtle from a young Lady.

What fears, what terrors does thy gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of my future fate;
The myrtle ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand;

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Not less capricious than the reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects the poet's pray'r;
In myrtle groves, oft sings the happy swain;
In myrtle shades, despairing ghosts complain:
Oh! then the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbing of an anxious heart;
Soon, shall this bough, as you shall fix his doom,
Adorn Philander's head,—or grace his tomb.