For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.

These locks which fondly thus entwine,

In firmer chains our hearts confine;

[pg 32]

Than all th' unmeaning protestations,

Which swell with nonsense, love orations.

Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,

Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;

Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,

With groundless jealousy repine.

With silly whims, and fancies frantic,

Merely to make our love romantic.

Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,

And fret with self-created anguish.

Or doom the lover you have chosen,

On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:

In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,

Only because the scene's a garden.

For gardens seem by one consent

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