[16]

[16]

TO AMORET GONE FROM HIM.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,

And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;

The West just then had stolen the sun,

And his last blushes were begun:

We sate, and mark'd how everything

Did mourn his absence: how the spring

That smil'd and curl'd about his beams,

Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:

The wanton eddies of her face

Were taught less noise, and smoother grace;

And in a slow, sad channel went,

Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:

The careless ranks of flowers that spread

Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.

And with an open, free embrace,

Did entertain his beamy face,

Like absent friends point to the West,

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