Welsh Journals

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FROM THE ITALIAN How will it meet thy cool reflections, Too fond (perhaps deluded) maid, T'have plac'd on Thyrsis thy affections, And yet of Thyrsis be afraid! What better means can I discover To make my tender passion known, Convince this unbelieving lover I pant, I sigh, for him alone ? When he appears, how are my blushes With cold alternate paleness seen Full in my cheeks, the blood now rushes, Then to the heart retires again. And yet th' ingrate would fain imagine That all within's serene and free While in my breast a fever's raging What more can he expect of me ? By his injurious doubts and scruples I find my bosom quite oppress'd I rave-the light forsakes my pupils, I die--O let me sink to rest. If I am tortur'd thus for ever, What end can I expect to grief, Since his ungen'rous behaviour Is one eternal unbelief HORTENSIUS. MEGAN ELLIS.