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But, if by chance the series of thy joys
Permit one thought less cheerful to arise,
Piteous, transfer it to the mournful swain,
Who loving much, who not beloved again,
Feels an ill-fated passion's last excess,
And dies in woe, that thou mayst live in peace.

TO A LADY:

SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.

AN ODE.

1 SPARE, generous Victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;

That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.

2 In the dispute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.

3 You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight;
For seldom your opinions err;

Your eyes are always in the right.

4 Why, fair one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's joined;

Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

5 Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspired;

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To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.

6 But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delayed;
And, armed with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.

7 Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight: She drops her arms, to gain the field: Secures her conquest by her flight:

And triumphs, when she seems to yield.

8 So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew;
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and as he fled, he slew.

SEEING THE DUKE OF ORMOND'S1
PICTURE

AT SIR GODFREY KNELLER'S.

OUT from the injured canvas, Kneller, strike
These lines too faint; the picture is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again.
Dreadful in arms on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's duke; impendent in the air
Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,

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1 James, Duke of Ormond, eldest son of Thomas, Earl of Ossory. He, after holding many considerable posts during the reigns of King William and Queen Anne, was, in the beginning of the reign of George the First, attainted of high treason on account of his being concerned in the unpopular measures of the last four years of Queen Anne's reign. He died in exile in the year 1745, in a very advanced age. At the battle of Landen he was taken prisoner, after his horse was shot under him, and he had received many wounds.

Where'er it points, denouncing death. Below
Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow;

Till weak with wounds, and covered o'er with blood,
Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flowed,
He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein,
But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies;
Lovely, sad object! In his half-closed eyes
Stern vengeance yet, and hostile terror stand;
His front yet threatens, and his frowns command;
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;
Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.

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O Kneller, could thy shades and lights express 20 The perfect hero in that glorious dress,

Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow;
In spite of Time thy work might ever shine,
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.

CELIA TO DAMON.

Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, summeque secundo
Inveniuntur-

LUCRET. lib. iv.

WHAT can I say, what arguments can prove

My truth, what colours can describe
If its excess and fury be not known,

In what thy Celia has already done?

my love;

Thy infant flames, whilst yet they were concealed In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld; With easy smiles dispelled the silent fear That durst not tell me what I died to hear; In vain I strove to check my growing flame, Or shelter passion under friendship's name;

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You saw my heart, how it my tongue belied,
And when you pressed, how faintly I denied.

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Ere guardian thought could bring its scattered aid, Ere reason could support the doubting maid, My soul surprised, and from herself disjoined, Left all reserve, and all the sex behind; From your command her motions she received; And not for me, but you, she breathed and lived. But ever blest be Cytherea's shrine,

And fires eternal on her altars shine;

Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound,
Since in thy kindness my desires are crowned,
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown,
Thy joys are centred all in me alone;

And sure am I, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its

power.
Yet thus beloved, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden Now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how
Should from my soul by raging love be torn,
And far on swelling seas of rapture borne;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.

Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause,
That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:
But with no owner beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away:
Pass but some fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep;
Shall only be of use to read, or weep.

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And on this forehead, where your verse has said, 45 The Loves delighted, and the Graces played; Insulting Age will trace his cruel way,

And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.

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Moved by my charms, with them your love may cease, And as the fuel sinks, the flame decrease; Or angry Heaven may quicker darts prepare, And Sickness strike what Time awhile would spare. Then will my swain his glowing vows renew; Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true; When my own face deters me from my glass, And Kneller only shows what Celia was?

Fantastic fame may sound her wild alarms;
Your country, as you think, may want your arms;
You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,
Whose smoke too long obscured your rising name, 60
And quickly cold indifference will ensue;

When you Love's joys, through Honour's optic, view.
Then Celia's loudest prayer will prove too weak,
To this abandoned breast to bring you back;
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accents of a woman's cry

Will pass unheard, will unregarded die;

When the rough seaman's louder shouts prevail;
When fair occasion shows the springing gale;

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And Interest guides the helm, and Honour swells the sail. Some wretched lines from this neglected hand

May find my hero on a foreign strand,

Warm with new fires, and pleased with new command;
While she who wrote them, of all joy bereft,
To the rude censure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barbarous pastime lost,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast.

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