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KENSINGTON GARDEN.
He show'd her where the pregnant goldfinch hung,And the wren-mother brooding o'er her young;To her th' inscription on their eggs he read:(Admire, ye clerks, the youth whom Milkah bred!)To her he show'd each herb of virtuous juice,Their powers distinguish'd, and described their use:All vain their powers, alas! to Kenna prove,And well sung Ovid, There's no herb for love. As when a ghost, enlarged from realms below,Seeks its old friend to tell some secret woe,The poor shade shivering stands, and must not breakHis painful silence, till the mortal speak;So fared it with the little love-sick maid,Forbid to utter what her eyes betray'd.He saw her anguish, and reveal'd his flame,And spared the blushes of the tongue-tyed dame.The day would fail me, should I reckon o'erThe sighs they lavish'd, and the oaths they swore;In words so melting, that compared with those,The nicest courtship of terrestrial beausWould sound like compliments from country clowns,To red-cheek'd sweet-hearts in their home-spun gowns.
