By reafon her own reafon 's meant,
Or, if you please, her will:
For, when this last is discontent,
The first is ferv'd but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her way
Whether by Nature taught,
I fhall not undertake to say,
Or by Experience bought.
But who o'er night obtain'd her grace,
She can next day disown,
And stare upon the ftrange man's face,
As one the ne'er had known.
So well she can the truth difguife,
Such artful wonder frame,
The lover or distrusts his eyes,
Or thinks 'twas all a dream.
Some cenfure this as lewd and low,
Who are to bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow
Befpeaks a noble mind.
Doris our thanks nor asks, nor needs:
For all her favours done
From her love flows, as light proceeds
Spontaneous from the fun.
On one or other ftill her fires
Difplay their genial force;
And fhe, like Sol, alone retires,
To fhine elsewhere of course.
Sleep! thou flatterer of happy minds,
How foon a troubled breast thy falfehood finds!
Thou common friend, officious in thy aid,
Where no diftrefs is fhown, nor want betray'd:
But oh, how swift, how fure thou art to shun
The wretch, by fortune or by love undone !
Where are thy gentle dews, thy fofter powers,
Which us'd to wait upon my midnight hours?
Why doft thou cease thy hovering wings to fpread,
With friendly fhade around my restless bed?
Can no complainings thy compaffion move?
Is thy antipathy so strong to love!
O no! thou art the profperous lover's friend,
And doft uncall'd his pleafing toils attend.
With equal kindness, and with rival charms,
Thy flumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bofom he to thine retires,
Where footh'd with cafe the panting youth refpires,
Till foft repose restore his drooping fense,
And Rapture is reliev'd by Indolence.
But oh, what fortune does the lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by Despair!
From racking thoughts by no kind slumber freed,
But painful nights his joylefs days fucceed.
But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not cause, nor canft thou ease my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has faid;
I own, unjustly I thy floth upbraid.
For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repell'd,
And my reluctant eyes from reft with-held;
Implor'd the Mufe to break thy gentle chains,
And fung with Philomel my nightly strains.
With her I fing, but cease not with her fong,
For more enduring woes my days prolong.
The morning lark to mine accords his note,
And tunes to my distress his warbling throat :
Each fetting and each rifing fun I mourn,
Wailing alike his abfence and return.
And all for thee---what had. I well-nigh faid?
Let me not name thee, thou too-charming maid!
No---as the wing'd musicians of the grove,
Th' affociates of my melody and love,
In moving found alone relate their pain,
And not with voice articulate complain;
So fhall my Muse my tuneful forrows fing,
And lofe in air her name from whom they fpring.
O may no wakeful thoughts her mind molest,
Soft be her flumbers, and fincere her reft :
For her, O Sleep, thy balmy fweets prepare;
The peace I lofe for her, to her transfer.
Hush'd as the falling dews, whose noiseless showers
Imperle the folded leaves of evening flowers,
Steal on her brow: and as thofe dews attend,
Till warn'd by waking day to re-afcend,
So wait thou for her morn; then, gently rife,
And to the world restore the day-break of her eyes.
OCCASIONED BY LY's PICTURE.
Yield, O Kneller, to fuperior skill,
Thy pencil triumphs o'er the Poet's quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Muse exert her lays,
It is no more to rival thee, but praise.
Oft have I try'd, with unavailing care,
To trace fome image of the much-lov'd fair;
But still my numbers ineffectual prov'd,
And rather fhew'd how much, than whom, I lov'd:
But thy unerring hands, with matchless art,
Have fhewn my eyes th' impreffion in my heart;
The bright idea both exifts and lives,
Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives :
Whofe daring point, not to the face confin'd,
Can penetrate the heart and paint the mind.
Others fome faint refemblance may express,
Which, as 'tis drawn by chance, we find by guess.
Thy pictures raise no doubts; when brought to view,
At once they're known, and feem to know us too.
Tranfcendent artist! how compleat thy skill!
Thy power to act is equal to thy will.
Nature and art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppofe each other, but befrlend :
For what thy fancy has with fire defign'd,
Is by thy fkill both temper'd and refin’d.
As in thy pictures light confents with shade,
And each to other is fubfervient made;
Judgement and genius fo concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect harmony.
But after-days, my friend, must do thee right,
And fet thy virtues in unenvy'd light.
Fame due to vaft desert is kept in store,
Unpay'd, till the deserver is no more.
Yet thou, in prefent, the best part haft gain'd,
And from the chofen few applaufe obtain❜d:
Ev'n he who best could judge, and best could praise
Has high extoll'd thee in his deathless lays;
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy name;
Let that alone fuffice thee, think that fame.
Unfit I follow where he led the way,
And court applaufe by what I feem to pay.
Myfelf I praife, while I thy praife intend,
For 'tis fome virtue, virtue to commend;
And next to deeds which our own honour raife,
Is to diftinguish them who merit praise.
THO
THOU watchful taper, by whofe filent light
I lonely pafs the melancholy night;
Thou faithful witness of my fecret pain,
To whom alone I venture to complain;
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