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IN THE SAME STYLE. THE AUTHOR SICK.
1 YES, fairest proof of Beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:
And I have lived,—and we must part.
2 While now I take my last adieu,
Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear;
Lest yet my half-closed eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.
3 From Jealousy's tormenting strife
For ever be thy bosom freed;
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.
4 Yet when some better-fated youth
Shall with his amorous parley move thee:
Reflect one moment on his truth
Who, dying thus, persists to love thee.
1 DEAR Cloe, how blubbered is that pretty face,
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled;
Pry'thee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us even talk a little like folks of this world.
2 How canst thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy: More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.
3 To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong; You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit: Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
4 What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shows The difference there is betwixt nature and art; I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose; And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart!
5 The god of us verse-men (you know, child) the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
6 So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way;”
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
7 Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
PALLAS AND VENUS.
THE Trojan swain had judged the great dispute,
And Beauty's power obtained the golden fruit;
When Venus, loose in all her naked charms, 8
Met Jove's great daughter clad in shining arms.
The wanton goddess view'd the warlike maid
From head to foot, and tauntingly she said:
Yield, sister, rival, yield; naked, you see,
I vanquish; guess how potent I should be,
If to the field I came in armour dressed;
Dreadful, like thine, my shield, and terrible my crest! 10
The warrior goddess with disdain replied,
Thy folly, child, is equal to thy pride;
Let a brave enemy for once advise,
And Venus (if 'tis possible) be wise:
Thou to be strong must put off every dress;
Thy only armour is thy nakedness;
And more than once (or thou art much belied)
By Mars himself that armour has been tried.
TO A YOUNG GENTILEMAN IN LOVE.
FROM public noise and factious strife,
From all the busy ills of life,
Take me, my Celia, to thy breast,
And lull my wearied soul to rest;
For ever, in this humble cell,
Let thee and I, my fair one, dwell;
None enter else, but Love, and he
Shall bar the door, and keep the key.
To painted roofs, and shining spires
(Uneasy seats of high desires) 10
Let the unthinking many crowd,
That dare be covetous and proud:
In golden bondage let them wait,
And barter happiness for state.
But oh! my Celia, when thy swain 15
Desires to see a court again,
May Heaven around this destined head
The choicest of its curses shed;
To sum up all the rage of Fate,
In the two things I dread and hate; 20
Mayst thou be false, and I be great!
Thus, on his Celia's panting breast,
Fond Celadon his soul expressed;
While with delight the lovely maid
Received the vows, she thus repaid:
Hope of my age, joy of my youth,
Blest miracle of love and truth,
All that could e'er be counted mine,
My love and life, long since are thine!
A real joy I never knew, 30
Till I believed thy passion true;
A real grief I ne'er can find,
Till thou provest perjured or unkind.
Contempt, and poverty, and care,
All we abhor, and all we fear,
Blest with thy presence, I can bear.
Through waters, and through flames I'll go,
Sufferer and solace of thy woe:
Trace me some yet unheard-of way,
That I thy ardour may repay; 40
And make my constant passion known,
By more than woman yet has done.
Had I a wish that did not bear
The stamp and image of my dear,
I'd pierce my heart through every vein,
And die to let it out again.
No; Venus shall my witness be
(If Venus ever loved like me)
That for one hour I would not quit 49
My shepherd's arms, and this retreat,
To be the Persian monarch's bride,
Partner of all his power and pride;
Or rule in regal state above,
Mother of gods, and wife of Jove.
O happy these of human race;
But soon, alas! our pleasures pass.
He thanked her on his bended knee;
Then drank a quart of milk and tea;
And leaving her adored embrace,
Hastened to court to beg a place. 60
While she, his absence to bemoan,
The very moment he was gone,
Called Thyrsis from beneath the bed,
Where all this time he had been hid.
MORAL. While men have these ambitious fancies, And wanton wenches read romances, Our sex will—What?—out with it—lie; And theirs in equal strains reply. The moral of the tale I sing (A posy for a wedding ring) 70 In this short verse will be confined: Love is a jest, and vows are wind.
Miss DANAE, when fair and young,
(As Horace has divinely sung)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of steel, and walls of brass.
The reason of the thing is clear,
Would Jove the naked truth aver: