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My deareft Lord, believe a careful Wife, You are too lavish of your precious Life; You foremost into every Danger run, Of me regardless, and your little Son. Shortly the Greeks, what none can singly do, Will compass, pointing all the War at you. But before that Day comes, Heavens! may I have The mournful Priviledge of an early Grave! For I of your dear Company bereft, Have no Reserve, no fecond Comfort left. My Father, who did in Cilicia reign, By fierce Achilles was in Battel Hain: His Arms that Savage Conqueror durft not spoil, But paid juft Honours to his funeral Pile; Wood-Nymphs about his Grave have planted since A rural Monument to a mighty Prince. Severr Brothers, who seven Legions did command, Had the fame Fate, froin the same murdering Hand. My Mother too, who their fad Heir did reign, With a vaft Treasure was redeem'd in vain, For she foon clos'd her Empire, and her Breath, By Wretches last good Fortune sudden Deatbe Thus Father, Mother, Brethren, all are gone, But they seem all alive in you alone. To gain you, those Endearmients I have sold, And like the Purchase if the Title hold. Have pity then, here in this Tower abide, And round the Walls and Works your Troops divide. But now the Greeks, by both their Generals led, Ajax, Idomeneus, Diomede, With all their most experienc'd Chiefs and brave, Three fierce Attacks upon the Out-Works gave; Some God their Courage to this pitch did raise, Or this is one of Troy's unlucky Days.
Hector reply'd, This you have faid, and more, I have revolvd in ferious Thoughts before.,
But I not half so much thöfe Grecians fear,
Then to his Infant he his Arms address’d, The Child clung, crying, to his Nurse's Breast, ir'd at the burnish'd Arms, and threatning Crest.
This made them Smile, whilst Hetor doth unbrace
Jove, and you heavenly Powers, whoever hear
Then in the Mother's Arms he puts the Child, With troubled Joy, in Howing Tears she smild: Beauty and Grief shew'd all their Pompand Pride, Whilst those foft Passions did her Looks divide.
This Scene er'n Hector's Courage melted down, But soon recovering with a Lover's Frown.
Madam, says he, these Fancies put away, I cannot die before my fatal Day; Heaven, when we firit take in our Vital Breath Decrees the way, and moment of our Death. Women should fill their Heads with Womens Cares And leave to Men, unqueftion'd, Mens Affairs. A Truncheon fuites not with a Lady's Hand, War is my Province, that in chief comniand. The Beauteous Princess silently withdrew, Turns oft, and with fad wishing Eyes does her Lord's
(steps pursue. Pensive to her Apartment fhe returns, And with Prophetick Tears approaching Evils
( mourns : Then tells all to her Maids; officious they His Funeral Rites to Living Hector pay,
Whilst forth he rushes through the Scean Gate,
By Sir George Etherege. THE 'HE Nymph that undoes me, is fair and unkind,
No less than a Wonder by Nature design'd; She's the grief of my Heart, the joy of my Eye, And the Cause of a Flame that never can die. Her Mouth, from whence Wit still obligingly flows, Has the beautiful Blush, and the Sniell of the Rose: Love and Destiny both attend on her Will, She Wounds with a Look with a Frown she can kill.
The desperate Lover can hope no redress,
To the Honourable Charles Montague, Esq.
How e’er, tis well, that while Mankind
Thro' Fates perverse Mxander errs, He can innagin'd Pleasures find,
To combat against real Cares.
Fancies and Notions he pursues,
Which ne'er had being but in Thought;
He Argues against Demonstration;
Has struggld with continu'd sorrow,
This day like all the former Alies :
At Objects in an airy height:
In search of what we like employ :)
To the Mind's Eye Things well appear : They lose their Forms, and make a Mass
Confus'd and black, if brought too near.