Mutual Love

ON a Brook's grassy brink, in the Willow's cool shade,
The Primroses pressing, a Damsel was laid;
She smil'd on the tide that roll'd limpid along,
Beholding herself, to herself sung this song.—

The 'Squire's fine Lady last night he brought home;
What! tho' in such gay clothes from London she's come,
Had I costly fashions as well shou'd I seem,
For fairer my Face is, if Truth's in this stream.

Thro' Church-yard, on Sunday, as slowly I tread,
While gaping Louts, grinning, on tombstones are spread,
I hear how they praise me, I keep on my way,
And, down-looking, seem not to heed what they say.

Sometimes Lords and Captains, all over perfume,
Will stop me, and tell me, I'm Beauty in Bloom.
That I rival the Rose,—that I'm whiter than Snow:
I simper, and simply say—Don't jeer one so.

They've press'd me, they've promis'd, nay offer'd me gold,
Sometimes (I assure them) they've strove to be bold;
They've talk'd of my Treasure, they've call'd it a Gem,
To be sure so it is, but it is not for them.

No! no! 'tis for him, and 'tis only his part,
Who's the Man of my Hope, and the Hopes of my Heart;
Who friendly instructs me, who fondly can play,
And his Eyes always speak what his Wishes wou'd say.

The ranging Bee sweets from the honey cup sips,
As sweet I taste Love from the Touch of his Lips;
Oft' my cheek on the fleece of my Lambkins I rest,
But cold is that pillow compar'd to his breast.

'Tis here for my Fair one!—her Lover reply'd,
O'er the hedge as he leap'd, and light dropp'd at her side;
She started! a moment Life's bloom left her face,
But quick 'twas recall'd by the warmth of embrace.

She, languishing lay in Love's tenderest scene,
And question'd the Rambler where 'twas he had been?
Why so he wou'd fright her.—She'd scold him she vow'd,
But a Kiss was his plea, and that plea was allow'd.

'Till by Kisses o'ercome, to his transports she yeilds,
The landscapes were lost, and forgot were the fields;
Each felt those Sensations Susceptibles prove,
Who, mutually melting, exchange mutual Love.