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With the rich flavour of Tokay
Allur'd, about the brim they play;
They light, they murmur, then begin
To lick, and so at length slip in;
Embracing close the couple lies,
Together dip, together rise;

You'd swear they love, and yet they strive
Which shall be sunk, and which survive.
Such feign'd amours, and real hate,
Attend the matrimonial state;
When sacred vows are bought and sold,
And hearts are ty'd with threads of gold.

A nymph there was, who ('tis averr'd
By Fame) was born without a beard:
A certain sign, the learn'd declare,
That (guarded with uncommon care)
Her virtue might remain at ten
Impregnable to boys or men.
But from that era we'll proceed,
To find her in a widow's weed;
Which, all Love's chronicles agree,
She wore just turn'd of twenty-three;
For an old sot she call'd her mate,
For jewels, pin-money, and plate.
The dame, possess'd of wealth and ease,
Had no more appetites to please;
That which provokes wild girls to wed,
Fie!-It ne'er enter'd in her head.

Yet some prolific planet smil'd,
And gave the pair a chopping child;
Entitled by the law to claim

Her husband's chattels, and his name:
But was so like his mother! She
The queen of love, her Cupid he.

This matron fair, for spouse deceas'd,

Had sorrow'd sore, a week at least ;

And seem'd to grudge the worms that prey,
Which had lain dead full many a day.
From plays and balls she now refrain'd,
To a dark room by custom chain'd;.
And not a male, for love or gold,
But the dear hopes of two years old.
The maids, so long in prison pent,
Ask leave to air; she gives consent
(For health is riches to the poor):
But Tom must stay to guard the door.
In reading Sherlock she'd employ
Her solitude, and tend the boy.

When madam sees the coast is clear,
Her spirits mantle and career,
Diffusing ardour through her mien;
Pity they should condense to spleen!
But now by honour she's confin'd,
Who flutter'd once as free as wind:
And on a masquerading morn
By six securely could return;
Having, to seal him safe till nine,
With opium drugg'd her spouse's wine.
This the gay world no worse would hold,
Than had she only chang'd his gold:
The species answer'd all demands,
And only pass'd through other hands.
But Honour now prescribes the law,
The tyrant keeps her will in awe ;
For charity forbid to roam,
And not a chitterling at home.

What! a large stoniach, and no meat!
In pity, Love, provide a treat;

Can widows feed on dreams and wishes,
Like hags on visionary dishes?

Impossible! Through walls of stone
Hunger will break, to suck a bone.
Want, oft in times of old, we read,
Made mothers on their infants feed;
And now constrain'd this matron mild

To grow hard-hearted to her child.

Her darling child she pinch'd; he squall'd;
In haste the favourite footman's call'd,
To pacify the peevish chit;

For who but he could do the feat?
He, smarting sore, refus'd to play;
But bade man Thomas beat mamma.
She, laughing, soon avow'd her flame
By various signs that want a name.
The lacquey saw, with trembling joy,
Gay humour dancing in her eye;
And straight, with equal fury fir'd,
Began th' attack; the dame retir'd;
And haply falling as she fled,
He beat her till she lay for dead;
But (with new vigour for the strife)
Soon with a sigh return'd to life.

Think ye she'd e'er forgive her son,
For what the naughty man had done
She did; yet, spited with his pain,
He sounds th' alarm to charge again.
But, 'squire, consult your potent ally,
Whether he's yet prepar'd to rally--
Yes; blood is hot on either side;
Another combat must be try'd.
She knew the foe could do no more,
Than at the first attack she bore;

So at his little malice smil'd,

And cry'd, “Come on!-to please the child."

A-LA-MODE.

"My better self, my heaven, my joy!
While thus imparadis'd I lie,
Transported in thy circling arms
With fresh variety of charms;

From Fate I scarce can think to crave

A bliss, but what in thee I have.

Twelve months, my dear, have past, since thou

Didst plight to me thy virgin vow;

Twelve months in rapture spent! for they
Seem shorter than St. Lucy's day:

A bright example we shall prove

Of lasting matrimonial love.

"Meanwhile, I beg the gods to grant,
(The only favour that I want)
That I may not survive, to see
My happiness expire with thee.

O should I lose my dearest dear,
By thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give myself the fatal blow,
And wait thee to the world below."

When Wheedle thus to spouse in bed
Spoke the best things he e'er had read;
Madam, surpris'd, (you must suppose it)
Had lock'd a Templar in the closet;
A youth of pregnant parts, and worth,
To play at piquet, and so forth-
This wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the curtain stole,
And, peeping in, with solemn tone
Cry'd out, "O man! thy days are done ‣

The gods are fearful of the worst,
And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To save their favourite from self-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their order."
"Hold, sir! for second thoughts are best,"
The husband cry'd: "Tis my request,
With pleasure to prolong my life."-
"Your meaning?"-" Pray, sir, take my wife."

SAPPHO TO PHAON,

A LOVE EPISTLE.

TRANSLATED FROM OVID,

WHAT, after all my art, will you demand,
Before the whole is read, the writer's hand?
And could you guess from whom this letter came?
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for lyrics, why
The strain is turn'd to plaintive elegy;
I mourn my slighted love; alas! my lute,
And sprightly odes, would ill with sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn, like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze conspire.
To flaming Etna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer flame at home.

No more my thoughts in even numbers flow,
Verse best befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once carest,
But Phaon rules unrivall'd in my breast.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy;
A fatal face to me, too cruel boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting looks, that wear
The blush of Bacchus and Apollo's air;
Assume the garb of either god, in thee
We every grace of either god may see;
Yet they confess'd the power of female charms,
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Tho' neither nymph was fam'd for wit, to move,
With melting airs, the rigid soul to love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial fire,
And my soft numbers glow with warm desire;
Alcæus and myself alike she crown'd,
For softness I, and he for strength, renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But wit my want of beauty well supplies :
My shape, I own, is short, but yet my name
Is far difius'd, and fills the voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore
The swarthy graces of the royal Moor1:

The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind:
But if you'll fly from Love's connubial rites,
Till one as charming as yourself invites,
None of our sex can ever bless your bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.
Yet, when you read my verse, you lik'd each
line,

And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang (that pleasing image still is plain,
Such tender things we lovers long retain !)
And ever when the warbling notes I rais'd,
You with fierce kisses stifled what you prais'd.
Some winning grace in every act you found,
But in full tides of ecstasy were drown'd;

! Andromeda.

When murmuring in the melting joys of love,
Round yours my curling limbs began to move:
But now the bright Sicilian maids adore
The youth, who seem'd so fond of me before:
Send back, send back my fugitive! for he
Will vow to you the vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving tongue of his can charm
The coyest ear, the roughest pride disarm.

O, aid thy poetess, great queen of love,
Auspicious to my growing passion prove!
Fortune was cruel to my tender age,
And still pursues with unrelenting rage.
Of parents, whilst a child, I was bereft,
To the wide world an helpless orphan left
My brother, in a strumpet's vile embrace,
Lavish'd a large estate to buy disgrace,
And, doom'd to traffic, on the main is tost,
Winning, with danger, what with shame he lost;
And vows revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His conduct, and was careful of his fame:
And then (as if the woes I bore beside
Were yet too light) my little daughter dy'd.
But after all these pangs of sorrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No gems, nor rich embroider'd silks, I wear
No more in artini curls I comb my hairy
No golden threads the wavy lacks enwreath,
Nor Syrian oils diffusive odours breathe:
Why should I put such gay allurements on,
Now he, the darling of my soul, is gone?
Soft is my breast, and keen the killing dart,
And he who gave the wound deserves my heart:
My fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he should wound, and Sappho's bosom bleed,
By the smooth blandishments of verse betray'd,
In vain I call my reason to my aid;
The Muse is faithless to the fair at best,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breast.

Yet is it strange so sweet a youth should dart
Flames so resistless to a woman's heart?
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his charmns,
For Phaon's would forsake Endymion's arms
Venus would bear him to her bower above,
But there she dreads a rival in his love.
O fair perfection thou, nor youth, nor boy,
Fix'd in the bright meridian point for joy!
Come, on my panting breast thy head recline
Thy love I ask not, only suffer mine:
While this I ask, (but ask, I fear, in vajn)
See how my falling tears the letter stain.

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At least, why would you not vouchsafe to show
A kind regret, and say, My dear, adieu !"
Nor parting kiss 1 gave, nor tender tear,
My ruin flew on swifter wings than fear:
My wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my mind,
Are all the pledges Phaon left behind;
Nor could I make my last desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast a pitying thought on me,
But, gods! when first the killing news I heard,
What pale amazement in my looks appear'd!
Awhile o'erwhelm'd with unexpected woe,
My tongue forbore to speak, my eyes to flow.
But when my sense was waken'd to despair,
I beat my tender breast, and tore my hair:
As a distracted mother weeps forlorn,
When to the grave her fondling babe is borne.
Meanwhile my cruel brother, for relief,
With scorn insults me, and derides my grief:

"Poor soul!" he cries, "I doubt she grows sin

cere ;

Her daughter is return'd to life, I fear."
Mindless of fame, I to the world reveal
The love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art fame, and all the world, to me;
All day I dote, and dream all night of thee:
Though Phaon fly to regions far remote,
By sleep his image to my bed is brought:
Around my neck thy fond embraces twine,
Anon I think my arms encircle thine:
Then the warm wishes of my soul I speak,
Which from my tongue in dying murmurs break:
Heavens! with thy balmy lips my lips are prest:
And then! ah then!-I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my dreams the bright ideas play,
And gild the glowing scenes of fancy gay:
With life alone my lingering love must end,
On thee my love, my life, my all, depend.

But at the dawning day my pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear deceit :
In caves and groves I seek to calm my grief;
The caves and groves afford me no relief.
Frantic I rove, disorder'd with despair,
And to the winds unbind my scatter'd hair.
I find the shades, which to our joys were kind,
But my false Phaon there no more I find :
With him the caves were cool, the grove was green,
But now his absence withers all the scene :
There weeping, I the grassy couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay:
I fall where thy forsaken print appears,
And the kind turf imbibes my flowing tears.
The birds and trees to grief assistance bring,
These drop their leaves, and they forbear to sing:
Poor Philomel, of all the quire, alone
For mangled Itys warbles out her moan;

But, Phaon, why should I this toil endure,
When thy return would soon complete the cure?
Thy beauty, and its balmy power, would be
A Phoebus and Leucadian rock to me.
O harder than the rock to which I go,
And deafer than the waves that war below!
Think yet, oh think! shall future ages tell
That I to Phaon's scorn a victim fell!

Or hadst thou rather see this tender breast
-Bruis'd on the clift, than close to Phaon's prest?
This breast, which, fill'd with bright poetic fire,
You made me once believe you did admire?
O could it now supply me with address

To plead my cause, and court thee with success!
But mighty woes my genius quite control,
And damp the rising vigour of my soul:
No more, ye Lesbian nymphs, desire a song,
Mute is my voice, my lute is all unstrung.
My Phaon's fled, who made my fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him-mine.)
Phaon is filed! but bring the youth again,
Inspiring ardours will revive my vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing prayer?
Vain are my vows, and fleet with common air:
My vows the winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian port.

Yet if you purpose to return, 'tis wrong
To let your mistress languish here so long:
Venus for your fair voyage will compose
The sea, for from the sea the goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious gales,
Will hand the rudder, and direct the sails.
But, if relentless to my prayer you prove,
If still, unkind without a cause, you'll rove,
And ne'er to Sappho's longing eyes restore
That object, which her hourly vows implore;
"Twill be compassion now t' avow your hate;

Her moan for him trills sweetly through the grove, Write, and confirm the rigour of my fate!

While Sappho sings of ill-requited love.

To this dear solitude the Naïads bring Their fruitful urns, to form a silver spring: The trees, that on the shady margin grow, Are green above, the banks are green below: Here, while by sorrow lull'd asleep I lay, Thus said the guardian nymph, or seem'd to say: "Fly, Sappho, fly! to cure this deep despair, To the Leucadian rock in haste repair; High on whose hoary top an awful fane, To Phoebus rear'd, surveys the subject main. This desperate cure, of old, Deucalion try'd, For love to fury wrought by Pyrrha's pride; Into the waves, as holy rites require,

Headlong he leap'd, and quench'd his hopeless

fire:

Her frozen breast a sudd n flame subdued,
And she who fled the youth, the youth pursued.
Like him, to give thy raging passion ease,
Precipitate thyself into the seas."

This said, she disappear'd. I, deadly wan,
Rose up, and gushing tears unbounded ran:
"I fly, ye nymphs, I fly! though fear assail
The woman, yet the lover must prevail.
In death what terrours can deserve my care?
The pangs of death are gentler than despair.
Ye winds, and. Cupid, thou, to meet my fall,
Your downy pinions spread! my weight is small.”
Thus rescued, to the god of verse I'll bow,
Hang up my lute, and thus inscribe my vow:
"To Phoebus grateful Sappho gave this lute;
The gift did both the god and giver suit."

Then, steel'd with resolution by despair,
For cure I'll to the kinder seas repair:
That last relief for love-sick minds I'll try;
Phoebus may grant what Phaon could deny.

PHAON TO SAPPHO.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE ancients have left us little farther account of Phaon, than that he was an old mariner, whom Venus transformed into a very beautiful youth, whom Sappho, and several other Lesbian ladies, fell passionately in love with; and therefore I thought it might be pardonable to vary the circumstances of his story, and to add what I thought proper in the following epistle.

I SOON perceiv'd from whence your letter came,
Before I saw it sign'd with Sappho's name:
Such tender thoughts, in such a flowing verse,
Did Phoebus to the flying nymph rehearse;
Yet Fate was deaf to all his powerful charins,
And tore the beauteous Daphne from his arms!
With such concern your passion I survey,
As when I view a vessel toss'd at sea;

I beg each friendly power the storm may cease,
And every warring wave be lull'd in peace.

What can I more than wish? for who can free
The wretched from the woe the gods decree?
With generous pity I'll repay your flame;
Pity! 'tis what deserves a softer name:
Which yet, I fear, of equal use would prove
To soothe a tempest, as abate your love

How can my art your fierce disease subdue?
I want, alas a greater cure than you:
Benumb'd in death the cold physician lies,
While for his help the feverish patient cries:
Call me not cruel, but reproach my fate,
And, listening while my woes I here relate,'
Let your soft bosom heave with tender sighs,
Let melting sorrow languish in your eyes;
Piteous deplore a wretch constrain'd to rove,
Whose crime and punishment is slighted love;
Fix'd for his guilt, to every coming age,
A monument of Cytherea's rage.

At Malea born, my race unknown to fame,
With oars I ply'd; Colymbus was my name;
A name that from the diving birds I bore,
Which seek their fishy food along the shore.
One summer eve in port I left my sail,
And with my partners sought a neighbouring vale;
What time the rural nymphs repair'd to pay
Their floral honours to the queen of May.
At first their various charms my choice confuse,
For what is choice where each is fit to choose?
But Love or Fate at length my bosom fir'd
With a bright maid in myrtle-green attir'd;
A shepherdess she was, and on the lawn
Sate to the setting Sun from dewy dawn;
Yet fairer than the nymphs who guard the streams
In pearly caves, and shun the burning beams.
I whisper love; she flies; I still pursue,
To press her to the joy she never knew:
And while I speak the virgin blushes spread
Her damask beauty with a warmer red.
I vow'd unshaken faith, invoking loud
Venus, t'attest the solemn faith I vow'd;
Invoking all the radiant lights above,

(But most the lamp, that lights the realm of love)
No more to guide ine with their friendly rays,
But leave my ship to perish on the seas,

If the dear charmer ever chanc'd to find
My heart disloyal, or my look unkind.

A maid will listen when her lover swears,
And think his faith more real than her fears.
The careful shepherdess secur'd her flocks
From the devouring wolf, and wily fox,
Yet fell herself an undefended prey
To one more cruel and more false than they.
The nuptial joys we there consummate soon,
Safe in the friendly silence of the Moon;
And till the birds proclaim'd the dawning day,
Beneath a shade of flowers, in transport lay:
I rose, and, softly sighing, view'd her o'er;
How chang'd, I thought, from what she was before!
Yet still repeated (eager to be gone)
My former pledges, with a fainter tone,
And promis'd quick return: the pensive fair
Went with reluctance to her fleecy care;
While I resolv'd to quit my native shore,
Never to see the late lov'd Malea more.

Fresh on the waves the morning breezes play, To bear my vessel and my vows away; With prosperous speed fly before the wind, And leave the length of Lesbos all behir!: Far distant from my Maleau love at last, (Secure with twenty leagues between us cast)

I furl my sails, and on the Sigrian shore,
Adopting that my seat, the vessel moor.
Sigrium, from whose aerial height I spy
The distant fields that bore imperial Troy:
Which, still accurs'd for Helen's broken vow,
Procure thin crops, ungrateful to the plough.
gaze, revolving in my guilty mind,

What future vengeance will my falsehood find,
When kings and empires no forgiveness gain'd
For violated rites, and faith prophan'd?
Sea-faring on that coast I led my life,

A commoner of love, without a wife,
Content with casual joys; and vainly thought
Venus forgave the perjur'd, or forgot.
And now my sixtieth year began to shed
An undistinguish'd winter o'er my head;
When, bent for Tenedos, a country dame
(I thought her such) for speedy passage came.
A palsy shook her limbs; a shrivel❜d skin
But ill conceal'd the skeleton within;
A monument of time: with equal grace
Her garb had poverty to suit her face.
Extorting first my price, I spread my sail,
And steer my course before a merry gaie;
Which haply turn'd her tatter'd veil aside,
When in her lap a golden vase I spy'd ;
Around so rich with orient gems enchas'd,
A flamy lustre o'er the gold they cast.
With eager eyes I view the tempting bane,
And sailing now secure amid the main,
With felon force I seiz'd the seeming crone,
To plunge her in, and make the prize my own.
To Venus straight she chang'd divine to view!
The laughing Loves around their mother flew :
Who, circled with a pomp of Graces, stood,
Such as she first ascended from the flood.

I bow'd, ador'd.--With terrour in her voice,
"Thy violence," (she cry'd,)" shall win the prize?
Renew thy wrinkled form, be young and fair;
But soon thy heart shall own the purchase dear.
Nor is revenge forgot, though long delay'd,
For vows attested in the Malean shade.
Wrapt in a purple cloud, she cut the skies,
And, looking down, still threaten'd with her eyes.
My fear at length dispell'd, (the sight of gold
Can make an avaricious coward bold)

I seiz'd the glittering spoil, in hope to find
A case so rich with richer treasures lin'd.
The lid remov'd, the vacant space enclos'd
An essence, with celestial art compos'd;

Which cures old age, and makes the shrivel'd cheek
Blushy as Bacchus, and as Hebe sleek:
Strength to the nerves the nectar'd sweets supply,
And eagle-radiance to the faded eye.

Nor sharp disease, nor want, nor age, have power
T' invade that vigour, and that bloom deflower.

Th' effect I found, for, when return'd to land, Some drops I sprinkled on my sun burnt hand; Where'er they fell, surprising to the sight, The freckled brown imbib'd a milky white; So look the panther's varied sides; and so The pheasant's wing. bedropt with flakes of snow, I wet the whole, the same celestial hue Tinctur'd the whole meander'd o'er with blue. Struck with amazement here, I pause a space; Next with the liquid sweets anoint my face: My neck and hoary locks I then bedew, And in the waves my changing visage view. Straight with my charms the watry mirror glows Those fatal charms that ruin'd your repose!

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Still doubting, up I start, and fear to find
Some young Adonis gazing o'er behind.
My waist, and all my limbs, I last besmear'd,
And soon a glossy youth all o'er appear'd.

Long wrapt in silent wonder, on the strand,
I like a statue of Apollo stand :

Like his, with oval grace my front is spread;
Like his, my lips and cheeks are rosy red;
Like his, my limbs are shap'd; in every part
So just, they mock the sculptor's mimic art:
And golden curls adown my shoulders flow;
Nor wants there aught, except the lyre and bow.
Restor❜d to youth, triumphant I repair
To court; to captivate th' admiring fair:
My faultless form the Lesbian nymphs adore,
Avow their flames, weep, sigh, protest, implore.
There feel I first the penance of my sin;
All spring without, and winter all within!
From me the sense of gay desire is fled,
And all their charms are cordial to the dead.
Or, if within my breast there chance to rise
The sweet remembrance of the genial joys;
Sudden it leaves me, like a transient gleam,
That gilds the surface of a freezing stream.
Meantime with various pangs my heart is torn,
Hate strives with Pity, Shame contends with Scorn:
Confus'd with grief, I quit the court, to range
In savage wilds; and curse my penal change.
The phenix so restor❜d with rich perfumes,
Displays the florid pride of all his plumes;
Then flies to live amid th' Arabian grove,
In barren solitude, a foe to love.

But in the calm recess of woods and plains,
The viper Envy revell'd in my veins;
And ever, when the male caress'd his bride,
Sighing with rage, I turn'd my eyes aside.
In river, mead, and grove, such objects rose,
T'avenge the goddess, and awake my woes:
Fish, beast, and bird, in river, mead, and grove,
Bless'd and rever'd the blissful powers of Love.

"What can I do for ease? O, whither fly?
Resume my fatal form, ye gods," I cry:
"Wither this beauteous bloom, so tempting
gay;

And let me live transform'd to weak, and gray !"
By change of clime, my sorrows to beguile,
I leave, for Sicily, my native isle;
Vain hope! for who can leave himself behind,
And live a thoughtless exile from the mind?
Arriving there, amidst a flowery plain
That join'd the shore, I view'd a virgin-train.
Who in soft ditties sung of Acis' flame,

And strew'd with annual wreaths his amber stream.
Me soon they saw, and, fir'd with pious joy,
"He comes, the godlike Acis comes," they cry:
"Fair pride of Neptune's court! indulge our

prayer;

Approach, you've now no Polypheme to fear.
Accept our rites: to bind thy brow, we bring
These earliest honours of the rosy Spring:
So may thy Galatea still be kind,

As we thy smiling power propitious find!
But if" (they read their errour in my blush ;
For shame, and rage, and scorn, alternate flush.)
But if of earthy race, yet kinder prove;
Refuse all other rites but those of love."
That hated word new-stabs my rankling wound ;
Like a stuck deer I startle at the sound:
Thence to the woods with furious speed repair,
And leave them all abandon'd to despair.

So, frighted by the swains, to reach the brake, Glides from a sunny bank the glittering snake; And whilst, reviv'd in youth, his wavy train Floats in large spires, and burns along the plain; He darts malignance from his scornful eye, And the young flowers with livid hisses die.

Let my sad fate your soft compassion move, Convinc'd that Phaon would, but cannot, love: To torture and distract my soul, are join'd Unfading youth, and impotence of mind. The white and red that flatter on my skin, Hide hell; the grinning furies howl within ; Pride, Envy, Rage, and Hate, inhabit there, And the black child of Guilt, extreme Despair: Nor of less terrour to the perjur'd prove The frowns of Venus, than the bolts of Jove.

When Orpheus in the woods began to play,
Sooth'd with his airs, the leopards round him lay;
Their glaring eyes with lessen'd fury burn'd;
But when the lyre was mute, their rage return'd:
So would thy Muse and lute a while control
My woes, and tune the discord of my soul:
In sweet suspence each savage thought restrain'd;
And then, the love I never felt I feign'd.
O Sappho, now that Muse and lute employ;
Invoke the golden goddess from the sky:
From the Leucadian rock ne'er hope redress,
In love, Apollo boasts no sure success:
Let him preside o'er oracles and arts;
Venus alone hath balm for bleeding hearts.
O, let the warbled hymn' delight her ear;
Can she, when Sappho sings, refuse to hear?
Thrice let the warbled hymn repeat thy pain,
While flowers and burning gums perfume her fane.
And when, descending to the plaintive sound,
She comes confess'd with all her Graces round,
O, plead my cause! in that auspicious hour,
Propitiate with thy vows the vengeful power.
Nor cease thy suit, till with a smiling air
She cries" I give my Phaon to thy prayer;
And, from his crime absolv'd, with all his charms
He long shall live, and die in Sappho's arms."
Then swift, and gentle as her gentlest dove,
I'll seek thy breast, and equal al! thy love:
Hymen shall clap his purple wings, and spread
Incessant raptures o'er the nuptial bed.
And while in pomp at Cytherea's shrine,
With choral song and dance, our vows we join;
Her flaming altar with religious fear

I'll touch, and, prostrate on the marble, swear
That zeal and love for ever shall divide
My heart, between the goddess and the bride,

A TALE,

DEVISED IN THE PLESAUNT MANERE OF
GENTIL MAISTER JEOFFREY CHAUCER

WHYLOM in Kent there dwelt a clerke,
Who wyth grete cheer, and litil werke,
Upswalen was with venere:

For meagre Lent ne recked he,
Ne saincts daies had in remembraunce,
Mo will had he to daliaunce.

To serchen out a bellamie,
He had a sharp and licorous eie;
But it wold bett abide a leke,
Or onion, than the sight of Greke;

! Alluding to her ode to Venus,

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