Hold up your head: hold up your hand :
Would it were not my lot to fhew ye
This cruel writ, wherein you ftand
Indicted by the name of Cloe!
For that, by fecret malice ftirr'd,
Or by an emulous pride invited,
You have purloin'd the favourite bird,
In which my mother moft delighted.
XX.
Her blushing face the lovely maid
Rais'd just above the milk-white sheet;
A rofe-tree in a lily bed
Nor glows fo red, nor breathes fo fweet.
XXI.
Are you not he whom virgins fear,
And widows court?, is not your name
Cupid? If fo, pray come not near
Fair maiden, I'm the very fame.
XXII.
Then what have I, good fir, to say,
Or do with her you call your mother?
If I should meet her in my way,
We hardly court'fy to each other.
XXIII.
Diana chafte, and Hebe sweet,
Witnefs that what I fpeak is true:
I would not give my Paroquet
For all the Doves that ever flew.
Yet, to compofe this midnight noife,
Go freely fearch where-e'er you please (The rage, that rais'd, adorn'd her voice)— Upon yon' toilet lie my keys.
Her keys he takes; her doors unlocks;
Through wardrobe and through closet bounces;
Peeps into every cheft and box;
Turns all her furbeloes and flounces.
But Dove, depend on't, finds he none;
So to the bed returns again :
And now the maiden, bolder grown,
Begins to treat him with difdain.
XXVII.
I marvel much, fhe fmiling faid,
Your poultry cannot yet be found:
Lies he in yonder flipper dead?
Or, may be, in the tea-pot drown'd?
XXVIII.
No, traitor, angry Love replies,
He's hid fomewhere about your breaft;
A place nor god nor man denies,
For Venus' Dove the proper neft.
XXIX.
Search then, the faid, put in your hand,
And Cynthia, dear protectrefs, guard me :
As guilty I, or free, may stand,
Do thou or punish or reward me.
But ah! what maid to Love can trust?
He fcorns, and breaks, all legal power:
Into her breast his hand he thrust;
And in a moment forc'd it lower.
XXXI.
O, whither do those fingers rove,
Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither?
O Venus! I fhall find thy Dove,
Says he; for fure I touch his feather.
S Cloe came into the room t' other day,
I peevish began; where so long could you stay? your life-time you never regarded your hour :
You promis'd at two; and (pray look, child) 'tis four.
A lady's watch needs neither figures nor wheels;
'Tis enough, that 'tis loaded with baubles and feals.
A temper fo heedlefs no mortal can bear
Thus far I went on with a refolute air.
Lord blefs me! faid fhe; let a body but speak! Here's an ugly hard rofe-bud fallen into my neck : It has hurt me, and vext me to fuch a degree See here! for you never believe me; pray see, On the left fide my breaft, what a mark it has made! So faying, her bofom the careless display'd. That feat of delight I with wonder survey'd ; And forgot every word I defign'd to have faid.
N fullen humour one day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida's grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His store of darts, his total quiver;
That Hermes fhould the weapons break,
Or throw them into Lethe's lake.
Hermes, 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 fullen Jupiter, just now,
I think I faid and you'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as he :
Hear but the youngster's repartee.
Come, kinfman (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 celeftial Hector.
He break my darts! or hurt my power!
He, Leda's fwan, and Danaë's fhower!
Go, bid him his wife tongue restrain;
And mind his thunder, and his rain.-
My darts! O certainly I 'll give 'em :
From Cloe's eyes he fhall receive 'em.
There's one, the best in all my quiver,
Twang! through his very heart and liver;
He then shall pine, and figh, and rave:
Good Lord! what buftle fhall we have!
Neptune must strait be sent to fea;
And Flora fummon'd twice a day :
One must find fhells, and t' other flowers,
For cooling grots, and fragrant bowers,
That Cloe may be ferv'd in ftate:
The Hours muft at her toilet wait :
Whilft all the reasoning fools below
Wonder their watches go too flow.
Lybs muft fly fouth, and Eurus east,
For jewels for her hair and breast.
No matter, though their cruel hafte
Sink cities, and lay forefts waste.
No matter, though this fleet be loft;
Or that lie wind-bound on the coast,
What whispering in my mother's ear!
What care, that Juno fhould not hear !
What work among you scholar gods!
Phoebus muft write him amorous odes.
And thou, poor coufin, must compofe
His letters in fubmiffive profe:
Whilst haughty Cloe, to sustain
The honour of my myftic reign,
Shall all his gifts and vows disdain;
And laugh at your old bully's pain.
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