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IT oft to many has successful been,
i |Upon his arm to let his mistress lean;
Or with her airy fan to cool her heat,
Or gently squeeze her knees, or press her feet,
All public sports, to favour young desire,
With opportunities like this conspire.
E’en where his skill the gladiator shows,
With human blood where the arena flows;
There oftentimes love's quiver-bearing boy
Prepares his bow and arrows to destroy:
- While the spectator gazes on the fight,
o And sees them wound each other with delight;
While he his pretty mistress entertains,
And wagers with her who the conquest gains;
Slily the god takes aim, and hits his heart,
And in the wounds he sees he bears his part.
THE TURTLE AND SPARROW.
AN ELEGIAC TALE, OCCASIONED BY THE DEAT II
OF PRINCE GEORGE, 1708.
BEHIND an unfrequented glade,
Where yew and myrtle mix their shade,
A widow turtle pensive sat, |
And wept her murder'd lover's fate. |
The sparrow chanc'd that way to walk
(A bird that loves to chirp and talk);
Be sure he did the turtle greet;
She answer'd him as she thought meet.
Sparrows and turtles, by the bye,
Can think as well as you or I:
But how they did their thoughts express,
The margin shows by T. and S.
T. My hopes are lost, my joys are fled;
Alas! I weep Columbo dead:
Come, all ye winged lovers, come,
Drop pinks and daisies on his tomb:
Sing, Philomel, his funeral verse;
Ye pious redbreasts, deck his hearse:
Fair swans, extend your dying throats,
Columbo's death requires your notes:
“For him, my friends, for him I moan,
My dear Columbo, dead and gone.”
Stretch'd on the bier Columbo lies;
Pale are his cheeks, and clos'd his eyes;
Those cheeks, where beauty smiling lay;
Those eyes, where love was us’d to play.
Ah! cruel Fate, alas! how soon
That beauty and those joys are flown!
Columbo is no more: ye floods,
Bear the sad sound to distant woods;
The sound let echo's voice restore,
And say, Columbo is no more,
“Ye floods, ye woods, ye echoes, moan,
My lear Columbo, dead and gone.”
The dryads all forsook the wood, And mournful naiads round me stood, The tripping fawns and fairies came, All conscious of our mutual flame, “To sigh for him, with me to moan My dear Columbo, dead and gone.”
Venus disdain’d not to appear, To lend my grief a friendly ear; But what avails her kindness now? She ne'er shall hear my second vow: The loves, that round their mother flew, Did in her face her sorrows view; Their drooping wings they pensive hung, Their arrows broke, their bows unstrung: They heard attentive what I said, And wept with me, Columbo dead: “For him I sigh, for him I moan, My dear Columbo, dead and gone.”
“'Tis ours to weep,” great Venus said; “'Tis Jove's alone to be obey'd: Nor birds nor goddesses can move The just behests of fatal Jove: I saw thy mate with sad regret, And curs’d the fowler's cruel net: Ah, dear Columbo! how he fell, Whom Turturella lov’d so well! 1 saw him bleeding on the ground, The sight tore up my ancient wound; And, whilst you wept, alas! I cried, Columbo and Adonis died.”
“Weep, all ye streams: ye mountains, groan: I mourn Columbo, dead and gone ; Still let my tender grief complain, Nor day nor night that grief restrain :” I said; and Venus still replied, “Columbo and Adonis died.” S. Poor Turturella, hard thy case, And just thy tears, alas, alas ! T. And hast thou lov’d ; and canst thou hear With piteous heart a lover's care? Come then, with me thy sorrows join, And ease my woes by telling thine: “For thou, poor bird, perhaps mayst moan Some Passerella dead and gone.” S. Dame Turtle, this runs soft in rhyme, | But neither suits the place nor time; The fowler's hand, whose cruel care | For dear Columbo set the snare, The snare again for thee may set; Two birds may perish in one net: Thou shouldst avoid this cruel field, And sorrow should to prudence yield. 'Tis sad to die — 7. — It may be so; 'Tis sadder yet to live in woe. S. When widows use this canting strain, They seem resolv’d to wed again. T. When widowers would this truth disprove, They never tasted real love. S. Love is soft joy and gentle strife,
His efforts all depend on life:
When he has thrown two golden darts,
And struck the lovers' mutual hearts;
Of his black shafts let death send one,
Alas ! the pleasing game is done :
Ill is the poor survivor sped,
A corpse feels mighty cold in bed.
Venus said right—“Nor tears can move,
Nor plaints revoke the will of Jove.”
All must obey the general doom,
Down from Alcides to Tom Thumb.
Grim Pluto will not be withstood
By force or craft. Tall Robinhood,
As well as Little John, is dead
(You see how deeply I am read):
With Fate's lean tipstaff none can dodge,
He'll find you out where'er you lodge.
Ajax, to shun his general power;
In vain absconded in a flower;
An idle scene Tythonus acted,
When to a grasshopper contracted;
Death struck them in those shapes again,
As once he did when they were men.
For reptiles perish, plants decay;
Flesh is but grass, grass turns to hay ;
And hay to dung, and dung to clay.
Thus heads extremely nice discover,
That folks may die some ten times over;
But oft, by too refin’d a touch,
To prove things plain, they prove too much,