To CHLOE. Written on my Birth-Day, 1734. John Hoadly Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.003 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. III. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 270-271. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

This e-text is part of the Works section of the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

XML created for the Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive (ECPA).

The text has been typographically modernized, but without any silent modernization of spelling, capitalization, or punctuation. The source of the text is given and all editorial interventions have been recorded in textual notes. Based on the electronic text originally produced by the TCP project, this text has been edited to conform to the recommendations found in Level 5 of the Best Practices for TEI in Libraries version 4.0.0.

Library of Congress Name Authority File (LCNAF) text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center; text-align: right; text-align: left; display: inline font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;
To CHLOE . Written on my Birth-Day , 1734. By the Same . THE minutes , the hours , the days , and the years , That fill up the current of Time , Neither flowing with hopes , neither ebbing with fears , Unheeded roll'd on to my prime . In infancy prattling , in youth full of play , Still pleas'd with whatever was new ; I bad the old cripple fly swifter away , To o'ertake some gay trifle in view . But when CHLOE , with sweetness and sense in her look , First taught me the lesson of love ; Then I counted each step the wing'd fugitive took , And bad him more leisurely move . Stop , run-away , stop , nor thy journey pursue , For CHLOE has gi'en me her heart : To enjoy it thy years will prove many too few , If you make so much haste to depart . Still , still he flies on — still , still let him fly 'Till he's tired , and panting for breath ; My love both his teeth and his scythe shall defy — That can only be conquer'd by Death .