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She knew the foe could do no more,
Than at the first attack she bore ;
So at his little malice (mild,
And cry’d, Come on !---To please the child.
A - LA - M C D E.
My better felf, 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 lafting 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! thould I lose
By thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give my self 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 surpriz'd, (you must suppose it)
Had lock'd a Templar in the closet :
A youth of pregnant parts, and worth,
To play at picquet, 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, О man! thy days are done :
The gods are fearful of the worst,
And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To fare their favourite from self-murder,
Lo! tbus 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, tir, take my wife.
WHAT, after all my art, will you demandi,
Before the whole is read, the writer's hand :
And could you guets from whom this letter came
Before you saw it sign’d with Sapphio's name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form’d for lyricks, why
The Atrain is turnid to plaintive elegy;
I mourn my sighted love ; alas ! my lute,
And frighly odes, would jll with forrow fuit.
I'm fcorch'd, I burn, like fields of corn on fire,
When winds to fan the furious blaze conspire.
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer fiame at home.
No more my thoughts in even numbers flow,
Verse beft befits a mind devoid of woe.
No more I court the nymphs I once carest,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my breast.
Fair is thy face, thy youth is fit for joy ;
A fatal face to me, too cruel boy!
Enllav'd to those enchanting looks, that wear
The bluth of Bacchus and Apollo's air ;
Affume the garb of either god, in thee
We every grace of either god may fee;
Yet they confess’d the power of female charms,
In Daphne's flight and Ariadne's arms;
Though neither nymph was fam’d for wit, to move
With melting airs the rigid foul to love.
To me the Muse vouchfafes 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 diffus'd, and fills the voice of fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore
The swarthy graces of the royal * Moor :
The milk-white doves with mottled mates are join'd,
And the gay parrot to the turtle's kind :
But if you'll Áy 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
lik'd each line,
And swore no numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang (that pleafing image still is plain,
Such tender things we lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling notes I sais'd,
You with fierce kiffes ftified what you prais d.
Some winning grace
But in full tides of ecstasy were drown'd;
When murruring 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 fo 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 difarm.
Oh, 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, whilft 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 traffick on the main is toft,
Winning with danger what with shame he oft,
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 forrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No gems, nor rich embroider'd filks, I wear ;
No more in artful curls I comb my hair;
No golden threads the wavy locks inwreath,
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 beft,
But fatal in a love-sick lady's breaft.
Yet is it strange lo sweet a youth should dart
Flames so refiftless to a woman's heart?
Him had Aurora seen, he foon had leiz'd
Her soul, and Cephalus no inore had pleas'd :