Poems by several hands, and on several occasions collected by N. Tate.

The Change.

1.

HEre! since it must be so, take thy last look, My heart such deep impressions took, Thou never wilt behold me more; No part will be the same As it appear'd when first I came; So alter'd shall I be, from what I was before.

2.

A few sad hours so great a change will make, Me from my self thou wilt mistake; And think some other Rival come, Who must as wretched be, Because he does resemble me: And thus I twice condem'nd, must bear the fatal doom.

3.

Destructive Fair! thou wilt alone do more, Than Grief or Sickness could before: That drooping form, which now appears Young as an Infant Spring Will be, (while you such ruine bring) As old in days, as was Methusalem in years.

4.

Dear Cruel Maid farewel: I know my doom, Yet ne'ertheless once more will come: Yes, I'll return and let you see, What I have said will prove Too true, th' effects of injur'd Love: And possibly your softning heart may pity me.

5.

Tho fain I'd be more blest before I dye; In Death I'll my last refuge try: And then, like old Aegyptians, Thou, (When no way else can move) To my pale Corps will kinder prove; And more perhaps upon my Tomb, than my Frail house bestow—