Just so-and, pointing with her hand-
So shone, says she, my eyes,
When from two Goddesses I gain'd
An apple for a prize.
When in the glass, and river too,
My face I lately view'd,
Such was I, if the glass be true,
If true the crystal flood.
In colours of this glorious kind
Apelles painted me;
My hair, thus flowing with the wind, Sprung from my native sea.
Like this disorder'd, wild, forlorn,
Big with ten thousand fears,
Thee, my Adonis, did I mourn,
Ev'n beautiful in tears.
But, viewing Myra plac'd apart,
I fear, says she, I fear,
Apelles, that Sir Godfrey's art
Has far surpass'd thine here:
Or I, a Goddess of the skies,
By Myra am undone,
And must resign to her the prize,
The apple, which I won.
But soon as she had Myra seen,
Majestically fair,
The sparkling eye, the look serene,
The gay and easy air.
With fiery emulation fill'd,
The wond'ring Goddess cry'd, Apelles must to Kneller yield, Or Venus must to Hyde.
How old may Phillis be, you ask,
Whose beauty thus all hearts engages ? To answer is no easy task,
For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays,
Her patches, paint, and jewels on,
All day let Envy view her face,
And Phillis is but twenty-one.
Paint, patches, jewels, laid aside,
At night, astronomers agree,
The ev'ning has the day bely'd,
And Phillis is some forty-three.
No-I'll endure ten thousand deaths
Ere any further I'll comply:
Oh! Sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high.
Oh! take your sword, and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound;
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the pressing Corydon
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid,
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents, said.
Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd,
Knowing, that sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.
And hark ye, Madam! cry'd the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the 'squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I, Florimel went on;
Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken Virtue run
If by her friend she is betray'd?
Oh! curse on empty friendship's name ;
Lord, what is all our future view?
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you.
From Delia's rage and Fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver;
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear Sir, and make me yours for ever.
HAT nymph should I admire or trust
But Chloe, beauteous Chloe, just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay
But her who listens when I play?
To whom in song repeat my cares
But her who in my sorrow shares ?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, pr'ythee, tell the rest.
SURE Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happen'd to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?
But when your cares to her you sing,
Yet dare not tell her whence they spring,
Does it not more afflict your heart
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flow'rs for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
CUPID AND GANYMEDE.
In heav'n, one holyday, you read,
In wise Anacreon, Ganymede
Drew heedless Cupid in to throw
A main, to pass an hour, or so :
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