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It has hurt me, and vex'd me to such a degree –
See here ! for you never believe me; pray see,
On the left side my breast what a markit has made
So saying, her bosom she careless display’d:
That seat of delight I with wonder survey'd,
And forgot every word I design'd to have said.
IN sullen humour one day Jove
Sent IIermes down to Ida's grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His store of darts, his total quiver;
That IIermes should the weapons break,
Or throw 'em into Lethe's lake.
IIermes, you know, must do his errand :
He found his man, produc’d his warrant;
Cupid, your darts—this very hour—
There's no contending against power.
How sullen Jupiter, just now,
I think I said; and you'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as he .
Hear but the youngster's repartee.
Come, kinsman (said the little god),
Put off your wings, lay by your rod;
Retire with me to yonder bower,
And rest yourself for half an hour:
'Tis far indeed from hence to Heaven:
But you fly fast; and ’tis but seven.
We'll take one cooling cup of nectar;
And drink to this celestial Hector—
He break my dart, or hurt my power!
He, Leda's swan, and Danaë's shower!
Go, bid him his wife's tongue restrain,
And mind his thunder, and his rain.—
My darts O certainly I’ll give 'em :
From Cloe's eyes he shall receive 'em.
There's one, the best in all my quiver,
Twang! through his very heart and liver,
He then shall pine, and sigh, and rave:
Good lord ' what bustle shall we have 1
Neptune must straight be sent to sea,
And Flora summon'd twice a day:
One must find shells, and toother flowers,
For cooling grots, and fragrant bowers,
That Cloe may be serv’d in state:
The Hours must at her toilet wait:
Whilst all the reasoning fools below
Wonder their watches go too slow,
Lybs must fly south, and Eurus east,
For jewels for her hair and breast:
No matter though their cruel haste
Sink cities, and lay forests waste.
No matter though this fleet be lost:
Or that lie wind-bound on the coast.
What, whispering in my mother's ear !
What care, that Juno should not hear !
What work among you scholar gods !
Phoebus must write him am’rous odes:
And thou, poor cousin, must compose
His letters in submissive prose;
Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain
The honor of my mystic reign,
Shall all his gifts and vows disdain;
And laugh at your old bully's pain.
Dear couz, said Hermes in a fright,
For Heaven's sake, keep your darts good night.
RESOLVE me, Cloe, what is this:
Or forfeit me one precious kiss.
'Tis the first offspring of the Graces;
Bears different forms in different places;
Acknowledg'd fine, where'er beheld ;
Yet fancied finer, when conceal’d.
'Twas Flora's wealth, and Circe's charm;
Pandora's box of good and harm :
'Twas Mars's wish, Endymion’s dream ;
Apelles' draught, and Ovid's theme.
This guided Theseus through the maze;
And sent him home with life and praise.
But this undid the Phrygian boy;
And blew the flames that ruin’d Troy.
This show’d great kindness to old Greece.
And help’d rich Jason to the fleece.
This through the east just vengeance hurl’d,
And lost poor Anthony the world.
Injur'd, though Lucrece found her doom;
This banish'd tyranny from Rome.
Appeas'd though Lais gain’d her hire;
This set Persepolis on fire.
For this Alcides learn'd to spin :
His club laid down, and lion's skin.
For this Apollo deign'd to keep,
With servile care, a mortal's sheep.
For this the father of the gods,
Content to leave his high abodes,
In borrow'd figures loosely ran,
Europa’s bull, and Leda's swan,
For this he reassumes the nod,
(While Semele commands the god);
Launches the bolt, and shakes the poles;
Though Momus laughs, and Juno scolds.
Here listening Cloe smil’d and said;
Your riddle is not hard to read:
I guess it—fair one, if you do :
Need I, alas ! the theme pursue?
For this thou see'st, for this I leave,
Whate'er the world thinks wise or grave,
Ambition, business, friendship, news,
My useful books, and serious Muse.
For this I willingly decline
The mirth of feasts, and joys of wine;
And choose to sit and talk with thee,
(As thy great orders may decree)
Of cocks and bulls, and flutes and fiddles,
Of idle tales, and foolish riddles.
THE QUESTION. TO LISETTA.
WHAT nymph should I admire, or trust, But Cloe, beauteous Cloe, just? What nymph should I desire to see, But her who leaves the plain for me? To whom should I compose the lay, But her who listens when I play? To whom, in song, repeat my cares, But her who in my sorrow shares? For whom should I the garland make, But her who joys the gift to take, And boasts she wears it for my sake? In love am I not fully blest? Lisetta, prythee tell the rest.
SURE, Cloe just, and Cloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care:
But when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?
But when your cares to her you sing,
Yet dare not tell her whence they spring;