Now deep in ashes finks the myrtle bow'r, } Y The LINK. A BALLA D. E ladies that live in the city or town, Fair Winton or Alresford fo fine and fo gay; Come away ftrait to Ovington, for you can't think Look how lovely the prospect, the meadows how green; How pleasant the morning, how clear the blue sky, How pure the fresh air, and how healthy the place! Your heart goes a pit-a-pat light as a fly, And the blood circles brifkly, and glows in your face: Wou'd you paint your fair cheeks with the rose and the pink ? Throw your washes away, take a walk on the Link. After dinner the 'fquire ere the ladies retreat, Marches off with fome friends that will ply the brisk glass; Give us liquor enough, and a good pleasant seat, Not fo gentle Collin, whom love holds in thrall, And when nought can be heard but the rude water-fall, But, o ye fair maidens, be fure have a care, If you walk in the evening too late on the Link. Ye poets fo lofty, who love to retire heart; From the noise of the town to the stream and the wood; Who in epics or tragics, with marvellous fire, Utter founds by mere mortals not well understood; Here mouthe your loud ftrain, and here ply pen and ink, Quit Parnaffus and Pindus, and come to the Link. And And come you, who for thought are at little expence, You fee with smooth numbers, and not too much sense, And the rhime at the close how it falls with a clink, In the feventh Canto of the Legend of Chastity, in Spenfer's Fairy Queen, the Squire of Dames tells Satyrane, that by order of his mistress Columbel (after having served the ladies for a year) he was fent out a second time, not to return till he could find three hundred women incapable of yielding to any temptation. The bad fuccefs he met with in the course of three years, which is flightly touch'd upon by Spenfer, is the foundation of the following poem. H PROLOGU E. I. ARD is the heart that never knew to love, Ne felt the pleafing anguish of defire. Ye British maids, more fair than Venus' dove, Who doth for court his annual fong prepare: Think not because I write of Columbel I thence would blast the sex with impious tale; For all the wealth that rolls on Indian grail. Did fuck the poison from her Edward's wound, See the fair fwans on Thamis' lovely tide, The which do trim their pennons filver bright, Then Then caft thy looks, with wonder and delight, Where yon fweet nymphs enjoy the ev'ning air, Some daunce along the green, like fairies light, Some flow'rets cull to deck their flowing hair; Then tell me, foothly, fwain, which fight thou deem'ft moft IV. To you, bright stars, that sparkle on our isle, To my Not hermits' bofoms feel so pure a flame, Warm'd by approval I more high shall soar: Receive my humble lays, my heart was yours before. V. Should you confent, I'll quit my fhepherd's grey, [fair. Then shall the world your matchless pow'r revere, And own what wonders your sweet smiles can do, That could a fimple clown into a bard transmew. |