Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.
         Heroides. English
         Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D.
      
       
         
           1680
        
      
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             Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.
             Heroides. English
             Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 or 18 A.D.
             Dryden, John, 1631-1700.
          
           [22], 280 [i.e. 272] p.
           
             Printed for Jacob Tonson ...,
             London :
             1680.
          
           
             Translation of: Heroides.
             The preface is by Dryden; the translations are by him, Scrope, Tate and others.
             First ed. of this collection. Cf. BM.
             Reproduction of original in Princeton University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           OVID's
           EPISTLES
           ,
           TRANSLATED
           BY
           
             SEVERAL
             HANDS
          
           .
        
         
           
             Vel
             tibi
             composiT
             ●
             cantetur
             Epistola
             voce
             :
          
           
             Ignotum
             hoc
             aliis
             ille
             novavit
             opus
             .
          
           
             Ovid.
             
          
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           
             Printed
             for
          
           Iacob
           Tonson
           
             at
             the
             Sign
             of
             the
          
           Iudges
           Head
           in
           Chancery
           Lane
           ,
           near
           Fleet-Street
           .
           1680.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           TO
           OVID's
           EPISTLES
           .
        
         
           THe
           Life
           of
           Ovid
           being
           already
           writen
           in
           our
           Language
           before
           the
           Translation
           of
           his
           Metamorphoses
           ,
           I
           will
           not
           presume
           so
           far
           upon
           my self
           ,
           to
           think
           I
           can
           add
           any
           thing
           to
           Mr.
           Sandys
           his
           undertaking
           .
           The
           English
           Reader
           may
           there
           be
           satisfied
           ,
           that
           he
           flourish'd
           in
           the
           Reign
           of
           
             Augustus
             Caesar
          
           ,
           that
           he
           was
           Extracted
           from
           an
           Antient
           Family
           of
           Roman
           Knights
           ;
           that
           he
           was
           born
           to
           the
           Inheritance
           of
           a
           Splendid
           Fortune
           ,
           that
           he
           was
           design'd
           to
           the
           Study
           of
           the
           Law
           ;
           and
           had
           made
           
           considerable
           progress
           in
           it
           ,
           before
           he
           quitted
           that
           Profession
           ,
           for
           this
           of
           Poetry
           ,
           to
           which
           he
           was
           more
           naturally
           form'd
           .
           The
           Cause
           of
           his
           Banishment
           is
           unknown
           ;
           because
           he
           was
           himself
           unwilling
           further
           to
           provoke
           the
           Emperour
           ,
           by
           ascribing
           it
           to
           any
           other
           reason
           ,
           than
           what
           was
           pretended
           by
           Augustus
           ,
           which
           was
           the
           Lasciviousness
           of
           his
           Elegies
           ,
           and
           his
           Art
           of
           Love.
           'T
           is
           true
           they
           are
           not
           to
           be
           Excus'd
           in
           the
           severity
           of
           Manners
           ,
           as
           being
           able
           to
           Corrupt
           a
           larger
           Empire
           ,
           if
           there
           were
           any
           ,
           than
           that
           of
           Rome
           ;
           yet
           this
           may
           be
           said
           in
           behalf
           of
           Ovid
           ,
           that
           no
           man
           has
           ever
           treated
           the
           Passion
           of
           Love
           with
           so
           much
           Delicacy
           of
           Thought
           ,
           and
           of
           Expression
           ,
           or
           search'd
           into
           the
           nature
           of
           it
           more
           Philosophically
           than
           he
           .
           And
           the
           Emperour
           who
           Condemn'd
           him
           ,
           had
           as
           little
           reason
           as
           another
           man
           to
           punish
           that
           fault
           with
           so
           much
           severity
           ,
           if
           at
           least
           he
           were
           the
           Authour
           of
           a
           certain
           Epigram
           ,
           which
           is
           ascrib'd
           to
           him
           ,
           relating
           to
           the
           Cause
           of
           the
           first
           Civil
           War
           betwixt
           himself
           and
           
             Mark
             Anthony
          
           the
           Triumvir
           ,
           which
           is
           more
           fulsome
           than
           any
           pas●age
           I
           have
           met
           with
           in
           our
           Poet.
           To
           pass
           by
           the
           naked
           Familiarity
           of
           his
           Expressions
           to
           Horace
           ,
           which
           are
           cited
           in
           that
           Authours
           Life
           ,
           I
           need
           only
           mention
           one
           notorious
           Act
           of
           his
           in
           taking
           Livia
           to
           his
           Bed
           ,
           when
           she
           was
           not
           only
           Married
           ,
           but
           with
           Child
           by
           her
           Husband
           ,
           then
           living
           .
           But
           Deeds
           ,
           it
           seems
           ,
           may
           be
           Iustified
           by
           Arbitrary
           Power
           ,
           when
           words
           are
           question'd
           in
           a
           Poet.
           There
           is
           another
           ghess
           of
           the
           Grammarians
           ,
           as
           far
           from
           truth
           as
           the
           first
           
           from
           Reason
           ;
           they
           will
           have
           him
           Banish'd
           for
           ome
           favours
           ,
           which
           they
           say
           he
           receiv'd
           from
           Julia
           ,
           the
           Daughter
           of
           Augustus
           ,
           whom
           they
           think
           he
           Celebrates
           under
           the
           Name
           of
           Corinna
           in
           his
           Elegies
           :
           but
           he
           who
           will
           observe
           the
           Verses
           which
           are
           made
           to
           that
           Mistress
           ,
           may
           gather
           from
           the
           whole
           Contexture
           of
           them
           ,
           that
           Corinna
           was
           not
           a
           Woman
           of
           the
           highest
           Quality
           :
           If
           Julia
           were
           then
           Married
           to
           Agrippa
           ,
           why
           should
           our
           Poet
           make
           his
           Petition
           to
           Isis
           ,
           for
           her
           safe
           Delivery
           ,
           and
           afterwards
           ,
           Condole
           her
           Miscarriage
           ;
           which
           for
           ought
           he
           knew
           might
           be
           by
           her
           own
           Husband
           ?
           Or
           indeed
           how
           durst
           he
           be
           so
           bold
           to
           make
           the
           least
           discovery
           of
           such
           a
           Crime
           ,
           which
           was
           no
           less
           than
           Capital
           ,
           especially
           Committed
           against
           a
           Person
           of
           
           Agrippa's
           Rank
           ?
           Or
           if
           it
           were
           before
           her
           Marriage
           ,
           he
           would
           surely
           have
           been
           more
           discreet
           ,
           than
           to
           have
           publish'd
           an
           Accident
           ,
           which
           must
           have
           been
           fatal
           to
           them
           both
           .
           But
           what
           most
           Confirms
           me
           against
           this
           Opinion
           is
           ,
           that
           Ovid
           himself
           complains
           that
           the
           true
           Person
           of
           Corinna
           was
           found
           out
           by
           the
           Fame
           of
           his
           Verses
           to
           her
           :
           which
           if
           it
           had
           been
           Julia
           ,
           he
           durst
           not
           have
           own'd
           ;
           and
           besides
           ,
           an
           immediate
           punishment
           m●st
           have
           follow'd
           .
           He
           seems
           himself
           more
           truly
           to
           have
           touch'd
           at
           the
           Cause
           of
           his
           Exile
           in
           those
           obscure
           Verses
           ,
           
             Cur
             àliquid
             vidi
             ,
             cur
             ●oxia
             Lumina
             f●ci
             ?
             &c.
             
          
           
           Namely
           ,
           that
           he
           had
           either
           seen
           ,
           or
           was
           Conscious
           to
           somewhat
           ,
           which
           had
           procur'd
           him
           his
           disgrace
           .
           But
           neither
           am
           I
           satisfyed
           that
           this
           was
           the
           Incest
           of
           the
           Emperour
           with
           his
           own
           Daughter
           ▪
           For
           Augustus
           was
           of
           a
           Nature
           too
           vindicative
           to
           have
           contented
           himself
           with
           so
           small
           a
           Revenge
           ,
           or
           so
           unsafe
           to
           himself
           ,
           as
           that
           of
           simple
           Banishment
           ,
           and
           would
           certainly
           have
           secur'd
           his
           Crimes
           from
           publick
           notice
           by
           the
           death
           of
           him
           who
           was
           witness
           to
           them
           .
           Neither
           have
           Histories
           given
           us
           any
           sight
           into
           such
           an
           Action
           of
           this
           Emperour
           :
           nor
           would
           he
           (
           the
           greatest
           Polititian
           of
           his
           time
           ,
           )
           in
           all
           probability
           ,
           have
           manag'd
           his
           Crimes
           with
           so
           little
           secresie
           ,
           as
           not
           to
           shun
           the
           Observation
           of
           any
           man.
           It
           seems
           more
           probable
           that
           Ovid
           was
           either
           the
           Confident
           of
           some
           other
           passion
           ,
           or
           that
           he
           had
           stumbled
           by
           some
           inadvertency
           upon
           the
           privacies
           of
           Livia
           ,
           and
           seen
           her
           in
           a
           Bath
           :
           For
           the
           words
           
             Nudam
             sine
             veste
             Dianam
             ,
          
           agree
           better
           with
           Livia
           ,
           who
           had
           the
           Fame
           of
           Chastity
           ,
           than
           with
           either
           of
           the
           Julias
           ,
           who
           were
           both
           noted
           of
           Incontinency
           .
           The
           first
           Verses
           which
           were
           made
           by
           him
           in
           his
           Youth
           ,
           and
           recited
           publickly
           ,
           according
           to
           the
           Custom
           were
           ,
           as
           he
           himself
           assures
           us
           to
           Corinna
           :
           his
           Banishment
           happen'd
           not
           till
           the
           Age
           of
           fifty
           ;
           from
           which
           it
           may
           be
           deduc'd
           ,
           with
           probability
           
           enough
           ,
           that
           the
           love
           of
           Corinna
           ,
           did
           not
           occasion
           it
           :
           Nay
           he
           tells
           us
           plainly
           ,
           that
           his
           offence
           was
           that
           of
           Errour
           only
           ,
           not
           of
           wickedness
           :
           and
           in
           the
           same
           paper
           of
           Verses
           also
           ,
           that
           the
           cause
           was
           notoriously
           known
           at
           Rome
           ,
           though
           it
           be
           left
           so
           obscure
           to
           after
           Ages
           .
        
         
           But
           to
           leave
           Conjectures
           on
           a
           Subject
           so
           incertain
           ,
           and
           to
           write
           somewhat
           more
           Authentick
           of
           this
           Poet
           :
           That
           he
           frequented
           the
           Court
           of
           Augustus
           ,
           and
           was
           well
           receiv'd
           in
           it
           ,
           is
           most
           undoubted
           :
           all
           his
           Poems
           bear
           the
           Character
           of
           a
           Court
           ,
           and
           appear
           to
           be
           written
           as
           the
           French
           call
           it
           Cavalierement
           :
           Add
           to
           this
           ,
           that
           the
           Titles
           of
           many
           of
           his
           Elegies
           ,
           and
           more
           of
           his
           Letters
           in
           his
           Banishment
           ,
           are
           address'd
           to
           persons
           well
           known
           to
           us
           ,
           even
           at
           this
           distance
           ,
           to
           have
           been
           considerable
           in
           that
           Court.
           
        
         
           Nor
           was
           his
           acquaintance
           less
           with
           the
           famous
           Poets
           of
           his
           Age
           ,
           than
           with
           the
           Noblemen
           and
           Ladies
           ;
           he
           tells
           you
           himself
           ,
           in
           a
           particular
           Account
           of
           his
           own
           Life
           ,
           that
           
             Macer
             ,
             Horace
             ,
             Tibullus
             ,
             Propertius
             ,
          
           and
           many
           others
           of
           them
           were
           his
           familiar
           Friends
           ,
           and
           that
           some
           of
           them
           communicated
           their
           Writings
           to
           him
           :
           but
           that
           he
           had
           only
           seen
           Virgil.
           
        
         
         
           If
           the
           Imitation
           of
           Nature
           be
           the
           business
           of
           a
           Poet
           ,
           I
           know
           no
           Authour
           who
           can
           justly
           be
           compar'd
           with
           ours
           ,
           especially
           in
           the
           Description
           of
           the
           Passions
           .
           And
           to
           prove
           this
           ,
           I
           shall
           need
           no
           other
           Iudges
           than
           the
           generality
           of
           his
           Readers
           :
           for
           all
           Passions
           being
           inborn
           with
           us
           ,
           we
           are
           almost
           equally
           Iudges
           when
           we
           are
           concern'd
           in
           the
           representation
           of
           them
           :
           Now
           I
           will
           appeal
           to
           any
           man
           who
           has
           read
           this
           Poet
           ,
           whether
           he
           find
           not
           the
           natural
           Emotion
           of
           the
           same
           Passion
           in
           himself
           ,
           which
           the
           Poet
           describes
           in
           his
           feign'd
           Persons
           ?
           His
           thoughts
           which
           are
           the
           Pictures
           and
           results
           of
           those
           Passions
           ,
           are
           generally
           such
           as
           naturally
           arise
           from
           those
           disorderly
           Motions
           of
           our
           Spirits
           .
           Yet
           ,
           not
           to
           speak
           too
           partially
           in
           his
           behalf
           ,
           I
           will
           confess
           that
           the
           Copiousness
           of
           his
           Wit
           was
           such
           ,
           that
           he
           often
           writ
           too
           pointedly
           for
           his
           Subject
           ,
           and
           made
           his
           persons
           speak
           more
           Eloquently
           than
           the
           violence
           of
           their
           Passion
           would
           admit
           :
           so
           that
           he
           is
           frequently
           witty
           out
           of
           season
           :
           leaving
           the
           Imitation
           of
           Nature
           ,
           and
           the
           cooler
           dictates
           of
           his
           Iudgment
           ,
           for
           the
           false
           applause
           of
           Fancy
           .
           Yet
           he
           seems
           to
           have
           found
           out
           this
           Imperfection
           in
           his
           riper
           age
           :
           for
           why
           else
           should
           he
           complain
           that
           his
           Metamorphosis
           was
           left
           unfinish'd
           ?
           Nothing
           sure
           can
           be
           added
           to
           the
           Wit
           of
           that
           Poem
           ,
           or
           of
           the
           rest
           :
           but
           many
           things
           ought
           to
           have
           been
           retrench'd
           ;
           which
           I
           suppose
           would
           have
           been
           the
           business
           of
           his
           
           Age
           ,
           if
           his
           Misfortunes
           had
           not
           come
           too
           fast
           upon
           him
           .
           But
           take
           him
           uncorrected
           as
           he
           is
           transmitted
           to
           us
           ,
           and
           it
           must
           be
           acknowledg'd
           in
           spight
           of
           his
           Dutch
           Friends
           ,
           the
           Commentators
           ,
           even
           of
           
             Julius
             Scaliger
          
           himself
           ,
           that
           
           Seneca's
           Censure
           will
           stand
           good
           against
           him
           ;
           
             Nescivit
             quod
             bene
             cessit
             relinquere
             :
          
           he
           never
           knew
           how
           to
           give
           over
           ,
           when
           he
           had
           done
           well
           :
           but
           continually
           varying
           the
           same
           sence
           an
           hundred
           waies
           ,
           and
           taking
           up
           in
           another
           place
           ,
           what
           he
           had
           more
           than
           enough
           inculcated
           before
           ,
           he
           sometimes
           cloys
           his
           Readers
           instead
           of
           satisfying
           them
           :
           and
           gives
           occasion
           to
           his
           Translators
           ,
           who
           dare
           not
           Cover
           him
           ,
           to
           blush
           at
           the
           nakedness
           of
           their
           Father
           .
           This
           then
           is
           the
           Allay
           of
           Ovids
           writing
           ,
           which
           is
           sufficiently
           recompenc'd
           by
           his
           other
           Excellencys
           ;
           nay
           this
           very
           fault
           is
           not
           without
           it's
           Beauties
           :
           for
           the
           most
           severe
           Censor
           cannot
           but
           be
           pleas'd
           with
           the
           prodigality
           of
           his
           wit
           ,
           though
           at
           the
           same
           time
           he
           could
           have
           wish'd
           ,
           that
           the
           Master
           of
           it
           had
           been
           a
           better
           Menager
           .
           Every
           thing
           which
           he
           does
           ,
           becomes
           him
           ,
           and
           if
           sometimes
           he
           appear
           too
           gay
           ,
           yet
           there
           is
           a
           secret
           gracefulness
           of
           youth
           ,
           which
           accompanies
           his
           Writings
           ,
           though
           the
           staydness
           and
           sobriety
           of
           Age
           be
           wanting
           .
           In
           the
           most
           material
           part
           ,
           which
           is
           the
           Conduct
           ,
           't
           is
           certain
           that
           he
           seldom
           has
           miscarried
           :
           
           for
           if
           his
           Elegies
           be
           compar'd
           with
           those
           of
           Tibullus
           ,
           and
           Propertius
           his
           Contemporaries
           ,
           it
           will
           be
           found
           that
           those
           Poets
           seldom
           design'd
           before
           they
           writ
           ;
           And
           though
           the
           Language
           of
           Tibullus
           be
           more
           polish'd
           ,
           and
           the
           Learning
           of
           Propertius
           ,
           especially
           in
           his
           Fourth
           Book
           ,
           more
           set
           out
           to
           ostentation
           :
           Yet
           their
           common
           practice
           ,
           was
           to
           look
           no
           further
           before
           them
           than
           the
           next
           Line
           :
           whence
           it
           will
           inevitably
           follow
           ,
           that
           they
           can
           drive
           to
           no
           certain
           point
           ,
           but
           ramble
           from
           one
           Subject
           to
           another
           ,
           and
           conclude
           with
           some
           what
           which
           is
           not
           of
           a
           piece
           with
           their
           beginning
           :
           
             Purpureus
             late
             qui
             splendeat
             ,
             unus
             &
             alter
             Assuitur
             pannus
             :
             As
             Horace
             says
             ,
          
           though
           the
           Verses
           are
           golden
           ,
           they
           are
           but
           patch'd
           into
           the
           Garment
           .
           But
           our
           Poet
           has
           always
           the
           Goal
           in
           his
           Eye
           ,
           which
           directs
           him
           in
           his
           Race
           ;
           some
           Beautiful
           design
           ,
           which
           he
           first
           establishes
           ,
           and
           then
           contrives
           the
           means
           ,
           which
           will
           naturally
           conduct
           it
           to
           his
           end
           .
           This
           will
           be
           Evident
           to
           Iudicious
           Readers
           in
           this
           work
           of
           his
           Epistles
           ,
           of
           which
           somewhat
           ,
           at
           least
           in
           general
           ,
           will
           be
           expected
           .
        
         
         
           The
           Title
           of
           them
           in
           our
           late
           Editions
           is
           
             Epistolae
             Heroidum
          
           ,
           The
           Letters
           of
           the
           Heroines
           .
           But
           Heinsius
           has
           Iudg'd
           more
           truly
           ,
           that
           the
           Inscription
           of
           our
           Authour
           was
           barely
           ,
           Epistles
           ;
           which
           he
           concludes
           from
           his
           cited
           Verses
           ,
           where
           Ovid
           asserts
           this
           work
           as
           his
           own
           Invention
           ,
           and
           not
           borrow'd
           from
           the
           Greeks
           ,
           whom
           (
           as
           the
           Masters
           of
           their
           Learning
           ,
           )
           the
           Romans
           usually
           did
           imitate
           .
           But
           it
           appears
           not
           from
           their
           writers
           ,
           that
           any
           of
           the
           Grecians
           ever
           touch'd
           upon
           this
           way
           ,
           which
           our
           Poet
           therefore
           justly
           has
           vindicated
           to
           himself
           .
           I
           quarrel
           not
           at
           the
           word
           Heroidum
           ,
           because
           't
           is
           us'd
           by
           Ovid
           in
           his
           Art
           of
           Love
           :
           
             Jupiter
             ad
             veteres
             supplex
             Heroidas
             ibat
             .
          
           But
           sure
           he
           cou'd
           not
           be
           guilty
           of
           such
           an
           Oversight
           ,
           to
           call
           his
           Work
           by
           the
           Name
           of
           Heroines
           ,
           when
           there
           are
           divers
           men
           or
           Heroes
           ,
           as
           Namely
           
             Paris
             ,
             Leander
          
           ,
           and
           Acontius
           ,
           joyn'd
           in
           it
           .
           Except
           Sabinus
           ,
           who
           writ
           some
           Answers
           to
           Ovids
           Letters
           ,
           
             (
             Quam
             celer
             è
             toto
             rediit
             meus
             orbe
             Sabinus
             ,
             )
          
           I
           remember
           not
           any
           of
           the
           Romans
           who
           have
           treated
           this
           Subject
           ,
           save
           only
           Propertius
           ,
           and
           that
           but
           once
           ,
           in
           his
           Epistle
           of
           Arethusa
           
           to
           Lycotas
           ,
           which
           is
           written
           so
           near
           the
           Style
           of
           Ovid
           ,
           that
           it
           seems
           to
           be
           but
           an
           Imitation
           ,
           and
           therefore
           ought
           not
           to
           defraud
           our
           Poet
           of
           the
           Glory
           of
           his
           Invention
           .
        
         
           Concerning
           this
           work
           of
           the
           Epistles
           ,
           I
           shall
           content
           my self
           to
           observe
           these
           few
           particulars
           .
           First
           ,
           that
           they
           are
           generally
           granted
           to
           be
           the
           most
           perfect
           piece
           of
           Ovid
           ,
           and
           that
           the
           Style
           of
           them
           is
           tenderly
           passionate
           and
           Courtly
           ;
           two
           properties
           well
           agreeing
           with
           the
           Persons
           which
           were
           Heroines
           ,
           and
           Lovers
           .
           Yet
           where
           the
           Characters
           were
           lower
           ,
           as
           in
           Oenone
           ,
           and
           Hero
           ,
           he
           has
           kept
           close
           to
           Nature
           in
           drawing
           his
           Images
           after
           a
           Country
           Life
           ,
           though
           perhaps
           he
           has
           Romaniz'd
           his
           Grecian
           Dames
           too
           much
           ,
           and
           made
           them
           speak
           sometimes
           as
           if
           they
           had
           been
           born
           in
           the
           City
           of
           Rome
           ,
           and
           under
           the
           Empire
           of
           Augustus
           .
           There
           seems
           to
           be
           no
           great
           variety
           in
           the
           particular
           Subjects
           which
           he
           has
           chosen
           :
           most
           of
           the
           Epistles
           being
           written
           from
           Ladies
           who
           were
           forsaken
           by
           their
           Lovers
           :
           which
           is
           the
           reason
           that
           many
           of
           the
           same
           thoughts
           come
           back
           upon
           us
           in
           divers
           Letters
           :
           But
           of
           the
           general
           Character
           of
           Women
           which
           is
           Modesty
           ,
           he
           has
           taken
           a
           most
           becoming
           care
           ;
           for
           his
           amorous
           Expressions
           go
           no
           further
           than
           virtue
           may
           allow
           ,
           and
           therefore
           may
           be
           read
           ,
           as
           he
           intended
           them
           ,
           by
           Matrons
           without
           a
           blush
           .
        
         
         
           Thus
           much
           concerning
           the
           Poet
           :
           whom
           you
           find
           translated
           by
           divers
           hands
           ,
           that
           you
           may
           at
           least
           have
           that
           variety
           in
           the
           English
           ,
           which
           the
           Subject
           denyed
           to
           the
           Authour
           of
           the
           Latine
           .
           It
           remains
           that
           I
           should
           say
           somewhat
           of
           Poetical
           Translations
           in
           general
           ,
           and
           give
           my
           Opinion
           (
           with
           submission
           to
           better
           Iudgments
           )
           which
           way
           of
           Version
           seems
           to
           me
           most
           proper
           .
        
         
           All
           Translation
           I
           suppose
           may
           be
           reduced
           to
           these
           three
           heads
           .
        
         
           First
           ,
           that
           of
           Metaphrase
           ,
           or
           turning
           an
           Authour
           word
           by
           word
           ,
           and
           Line
           by
           Line
           ,
           from
           one
           Language
           into
           another
           .
           Thus
           ,
           or
           near
           this
           manner
           ,
           was
           Horace
           his
           Art
           of
           Poetry
           translated
           by
           
             Ben.
             Johnson
          
           .
           The
           second
           way
           is
           that
           of
           Paraphrase
           ,
           or
           Translation
           with
           Latitude
           ,
           where
           the
           Authour
           is
           kept
           in
           view
           by
           the
           Translator
           ,
           so
           as
           never
           to
           be
           lost
           ,
           but
           his
           words
           are
           not
           so
           strictly
           follow'd
           as
           his
           sense
           ,
           and
           that
           too
           is
           admitted
           to
           be
           amplyfied
           ,
           but
           not
           alter'd
           .
           Such
           is
           Mr.
           Wal●ers
           Translation
           of
           Virgils
           Fourth
           Aeneid
           .
           The
           Third
           way
           is
           that
           of
           Imitation
           ,
           where
           the
           Translator
           (
           if
           now
           he
           has
           not
           lost
           that
           Name
           )
           assumes
           the
           liberty
           not
           only
           to
           vary
           from
           the
           words
           and
           sence
           ,
           but
           to
           forsake
           them●both
           as
           he
           sees
           occasion
           :
           and
           taking
           only
           some
           general
           hints
           from
           the
           Original
           ,
           
           to
           run
           division
           on
           the
           ground-work
           ,
           as
           he
           pleases
           .
           Such
           is
           Mr.
           Cowleys
           practice
           in
           turning
           two
           Odes
           of
           Pindar
           ,
           and
           one
           of
           Horace
           into
           English.
           
        
         
           Concerning
           the
           first
           of
           these
           Methods
           ,
           our
           Master
           Horace
           has
           given
           us
           this
           Caution
           ,
           
             
               Nec
               verbum
               verbo
               curabis
               reddere
               ,
               fidus
            
             
               Interpres
               —
            
          
           
             Nor
             word
             for
             word
             too
             faithfully
             translate
             .
          
           As
           the
           Earl
           of
           Roscommon
           has
           excellently
           render'd
           it
           .
           Too
           faithfully
           is
           indeed
           pedantically
           :
           't
           is
           a
           faith
           like
           that
           which
           proceeds
           from
           Superstition
           ,
           blind
           and
           Zealous
           :
           Take
           it
           in
           the
           Expression
           of
           Sir
           
             John
             Denham
          
           ,
           to
           Sir
           
             Rich
             Fanshaw
          
           ,
           on
           his
           Version
           of
           the
           Pastor
           Fido.
           
           
             
               That
               servile
               path
               ,
               thou
               nobly
               do'st
               decline
               ,
            
             
               Of
               tracing
               word
               by
               word
               and
               Line
               by
               Line
               ;
            
             
               A
               new
               and
               nobler
               way
               thou
               do'st
               pursue
               ,
            
             
               To
               make
               Translations
               ,
               and
               Translators
               too
               :
            
             
               They
               but
               preserve
               the
               Ashes
               ,
               thou
               the
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               True
               to
               his
               Sence
               ,
               but
               truer
               to
               his
               Fame
               .
            
          
        
         
           'T
           is
           almost
           impossible
           to
           Translate
           verbally
           ,
           and
           well
           ,
           at
           the
           same
           time
           ;
           For
           the
           Latin
           ,
           (
           a
           most
           severe
           and
           Compendious
           Language
           )
           often
           expresses
           
           that
           in
           one
           word
           ,
           which
           either
           the
           Barbarity
           ,
           or
           the
           narrowness
           of
           modern
           Tongues
           cannot
           supply
           it
           more
           .
           'T
           is
           frequent
           also
           that
           the
           Conceit
           is
           couch'd
           in
           some
           Expression
           ,
           which
           will
           be
           lost
           in
           English.
           
           
             Atque
             ijdem
             Venti
             vela
             fidèmque
             ferent
             .
          
           what
           Poet
           of
           our
           Nation
           is
           so
           happy
           as
           to
           express
           this
           thought
           Literally
           in
           English
           ,
           and
           to
           strike
           Wit
           or
           almost
           Sense
           out
           of
           it
           ?
        
         
           In
           short
           the
           Verbal
           Copyer
           is
           incumber'd
           with
           so
           many
           difficulties
           at
           once
           ,
           that
           he
           can
           never
           disintangle
           himself
           from
           all
           .
           He
           is
           to
           consider
           at
           the
           same
           time
           the
           thought
           of
           his
           Authour
           ,
           and
           his
           words
           ,
           and
           to
           find
           out
           the
           Counterpart
           to
           each
           in
           another
           Language
           :
           and
           besides
           this
           he
           is
           to
           confine
           himself
           to
           the
           compass
           of
           Numbers
           ,
           and
           the
           Slavery
           of
           Rhime
           .
           'T
           is
           much
           like
           dancing
           on
           Ropes
           with
           fetter'd
           Leggs
           :
           A
           man
           may
           shun
           a
           f●ll
           by
           using
           Caution
           ,
           but
           the
           gracefulness
           of
           Motion
           is
           not
           to
           be
           expected
           :
           and
           when
           we
           have
           said
           the
           best
           of
           it
           ,
           't
           is
           but
           a
           foolish
           Task
           ;
           for
           no
           sober
           man
           would
           put
           himself
           into
           a
           danger
           for
           the
           Applause
           of
           scaping
           without
           breaking
           his
           Neck
           .
           We
           see
           
             Ben.
             Johnson
          
           could
           not
           avoid
           obscurity
           in
           his
           literal
           Translation
           of
           Horace
           ,
           attempted
           in
           the
           same
           compass
           of
           Lines
           :
           nay
           Horace
           himself
           could
           ●earce
           have
           done
           it
           to
           a
           Greek
           Poet
           ▪
           
             Brevis
             esse
             laboro
             ,
             obscurus
             ●io
             .
          
           
           either
           perspicuity
           or
           gracefulness
           will
           frequently
           ●e
           wanting
           .
           Horace
           has
           indeed
           avoided
           both
           these
           Rocks
           in
           his
           Translation
           of
           the
           three
           first
           Lines
           of
           
             Homers
             Odysses
          
           ,
           which
           he
           has
           Contracted
           into
           two
           .
           
             
               
                 Dic
                 mihi
                 Musa
                 Virum
                 captae
                 post
                 tempora
                 Trojae
              
               
                 Qui
                 mores
                 hominum
                 multorum
                 vidit
                 &
                 urbes
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 Muse
                 ,
                 speak
                 the
                 man
                 ,
                 who
                 since
                 the
                 Siege
                 of
                 Troy
                 ,
                 
              
               
                 So
                 many
                 Towns
                 ,
                 such
                 Change
                 of
                 Manners
                 saw
                 .
              
            
          
        
         
           But
           then
           the
           sufferings
           of
           Ulysses
           ,
           which
           are
           a
           Considerable
           part
           of
           that
           Sentence
           are
           omitted
           .
           
             
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
               〈◊〉
            
          
        
         
           The
           Consideration
           of
           these
           difficulties
           ,
           in
           a
           servile
           ,
           literal
           Translation
           ,
           not
           long
           since
           made
           two
           of
           our
           famous
           Wits
           ,
           
             Sir
             John
             Denham
          
           ,
           and
           Mr.
           Cowley
           to
           contrive
           another
           way
           of
           turning
           Authours
           into
           our
           Tongue
           ,
           call'd
           by
           the
           latter
           of
           them
           ,
           Imitation
           As
           they
           were
           Friends
           ,
           I
           suppose
           they
           Communicated
           their
           thoughts
           on
           this
           Subject
           to
           e●ch
           other
           ,
           and
           therefore
           their
           reasons
           for
           it
           are
           little
           different
           :
           though
           the
           practice
           of
           one
           is
           much
           more
           moderate
           .
           I
           take
           Imitation
           of
           an
           Authour
           in
           their
           sense
           to
           be
           an
           Endeavour
           of
           a
           later
           Poet
           to
           write
           like
           one
           who
           has
           written
           before
           him
           on
           the
           same
           Subject
           :
           that
           is
           ,
           not
           to
           Translate
           his
           words
           ,
           or
           to
           be
           Confin'd
           to
           his
           Sense
           ,
           but
           only
           to
           set
           him
           as
           a
           Patern
           ,
           and
           to
           write
           ,
           as
           he
           supposes
           ,
           
           that
           Authour
           would
           have
           done
           ,
           had
           he
           liv'd
           in
           our
           Age
           ,
           and
           in
           our
           Country
           .
           Yet
           I
           dare
           not
           say
           that
           either
           of
           them
           have
           carried
           this
           libertine
           way
           of
           rendring
           Authours
           (
           as
           Mr.
           Cowley
           calls
           it
           )
           so
           far
           as
           my
           Definition
           reaches
           .
           For
           in
           the
           
             Pindarick
             Odes
          
           ,
           the
           Customs
           and
           Ceremonies
           of
           Ancient
           Greece
           are
           still
           preserv'd
           :
           but
           I
           know
           not
           what
           mischief
           may
           arise
           hereafter
           from
           the
           Example
           of
           such
           an
           Innovation
           ,
           when
           writers
           of
           unequal
           parts
           to
           him
           ,
           shall
           imitate
           so
           bold
           an
           undertaking
           ,
           to
           add
           and
           to
           diminish
           what
           we
           please
           ,
           which
           is
           the
           way
           avow'd
           by
           him
           ,
           ought
           only
           to
           be
           granted
           to
           Mr.
           Cowley
           ,
           and
           that
           too
           only
           in
           his
           Translation
           of
           Pindar
           ,
           because
           he
           alone
           was
           able
           to
           make
           him
           amends
           ,
           by
           giving
           him
           better
           of
           his
           own
           ,
           when
           ever
           he
           refus'd
           his
           Authours
           thoughts
           .
           Pindar
           is
           generally
           known
           to
           be
           a
           dark
           writer
           ,
           to
           want
           Connexion
           ,
           (
           I
           mean
           as
           to
           our
           understanding
           )
           to
           ●oar
           out
           of
           sight
           ,
           and
           leave
           his
           Reader
           at
           a
           Gaze
           :
           So
           wild
           and
           ungovernable
           a
           Poet
           cannot
           be
           Translated
           litterally
           ,
           his
           Genius
           is
           too
           strong
           to
           bear
           a
           Chain
           ,
           and
           Sampson
           like
           he
           shakes
           it
           off
           :
           A
           Genius
           so
           Elevated
           and
           unconfin'd
           as
           Mr.
           
           Cowley's
           ,
           was
           but
           necessary
           to
           make
           Pindar
           speak
           English
           ,
           and
           that
           was
           to
           be
           perform'd
           by
           no
           other
           way
           than
           Imitation
           .
           But
           if
           Virgil
           or
           Ovid
           ,
           ●or
           any
           regular
           intelligible
           Authours
           be
           thus
           us'd
           ,
           ●tis
           no
           longer
           to
           be
           call'd
           their
           work
           ,
           when
           neither
           the
           thoughts
           nor
           words
           are
           drawn
           from
           the
           Original
           :
           but
           instead
           of
           them
           there
           is
           something
           new
           produc'd
           ,
           which
           is
           almost
           the
           creation
           of
           another
           hand
           .
           By
           this
           way
           't
           is
           true
           ,
           somewhat
           that
           is
           
           Excellent
           may
           be
           invented
           perhaps
           more
           Exellent
           than
           the
           first
           design
           ,
           though
           Virgil
           must
           be
           still
           excepted
           ,
           when
           that
           perhaps
           takes
           plac●
           Let
           he
           who
           is
           inquisitive
           to
           know
           an
           Authours
           thoughts
           will
           be
           disapointed
           in
           his
           expectation
           .
           And
           't
           is
           not
           always
           that
           a
           man
           will
           be
           contented
           to
           have
           a
           Present
           made
           him
           ,
           when
           he
           expects
           the
           payment
           of
           a
           Debt
           .
           To
           state
           it
           fairly
           ,
           Imitation
           of
           an
           Authour
           is
           the
           most
           advantagious
           way
           for
           a
           Translator
           to
           shew
           himself
           ,
           but
           the
           greatest
           wrong
           which
           can
           be
           done
           to
           the
           Memory
           and
           Reputation
           of
           the
           dead
           .
           Sir
           
             John
             Denham
          
           (
           who
           advis'd
           more
           Liberty
           than
           he
           took
           himself
           ,
           )
           gives
           this
           Reason
           for
           his
           Innovation
           ,
           in
           his
           admirable
           Preface
           before
           the
           Translation
           of
           the
           second
           Aeneid
           :
           
             Poetry
             is
             of
             so
             subtila
             Spirit
             ,
             that
             in
             pouring
             out
             of
             one
             Language
             into
             another
             ,
             it
             will
             ●ll
             Evaporate
             ;
             and
             if
             a
             new
             Spirit
             be
             not
             added
             in
             the
             transfusion
             ,
             there
             will
             remain
             nothing
             but
             a
             
               Caput
               Mortuum
            
             .
          
           I
           confess
           this
           Argument
           holds
           good
           against
           a
           litteral
           Translation
           ,
           but
           who
           defends
           it
           ?
           Imitation
           and
           verbal
           Version
           are
           in
           my
           Opinion
           the
           two
           Extreams
           ,
           which
           ought
           to
           be
           avoided
           :
           and
           therefore
           when
           I
           have
           propos'd
           the
           mean
           betwixt
           them
           ,
           it
           will
           be
           seen
           how
           far
           his
           Argument
           will
           reach
           .
        
         
           No
           man
           is
           capable
           of
           Translating
           Poetry
           ,
           who
           besides
           a
           Genius
           to
           that
           Art
           ,
           is
           not
           a
           Master
           both
           of
           his
           Authours
           Language
           ,
           and
           of
           his
           own
           :
           Nor
           must
           we
           understand
           the
           Language
           only
           of
           the
           Poet
           ,
           but
           his
           particular
           turn
           of
           Thoughts
           ,
           and
           of
           Expression
           ,
           which
           are
           the
           Characters
           that
           distinguish
           ,
           
           〈…〉
           When
           we
           are
           come
           thus
           far
           't
           is
           time
           to
           look
           into
           our selves
           to
           conform
           our
           〈◊〉
           to
           his
           ,
           to
           give
           his
           thought
           either
           the
           same
           turn
           if
           our
           tongue
           will
           bear
           it
           ,
           or
           if
           not
           ,
           to
           vary
           but
           the
           dress
           ,
           not
           to
           alter
           or
           destroy
           the
           substance
           .
           The
           like
           Care
           must
           be
           taken
           of
           the
           more
           outward
           Ornaments
           ,
           the
           Words
           :
           when
           they
           appear
           (
           which
           is
           but
           seldom
           )
           litterally
           graceful
           ,
           it
           were
           an
           injury
           to
           the
           Authour
           that
           they
           should
           be
           chang'd
           :
           But
           since
           every
           Language
           is
           so
           full
           of
           its
           own
           proprieties
           ,
           that
           what
           is
           Beautiful
           in
           one
           ,
           is
           often
           Barbarous
           ,
           nay
           sometimes
           Nonsence
           in
           another
           ,
           it
           would
           be
           unreasonable
           to
           limit
           a
           Translator
           to
           the
           narrow
           compass
           of
           his
           Authours
           words
           :
           't
           is
           enough
           if
           he
           choose
           out
           some
           Expression
           which
           does
           not
           vitiate
           the
           Sense
           .
           I
           suppose
           he
           may
           stretch
           his
           Chain
           to
           such
           a
           Latitude
           ,
           but
           by
           innovation
           of
           thoughts
           ,
           methinks
           he
           breaks
           it
           .
           By
           this
           means
           the
           Spirit
           of
           an
           Authour
           may
           be
           transfus'd
           ,
           and
           yet
           not
           lost
           :
           and
           thus
           't
           is
           plain
           that
           the
           reason
           alledg'd
           by
           Sir.
           
             John
             Denham
          
           ,
           ha●
           no
           farther
           force
           than
           to
           Expression
           :
           for
           thought
           ,
           if
           it
           be
           Translated
           truly
           ,
           cannot
           be
           lost
           in
           another
           Language
           ,
           but
           the
           words
           that
           convey
           it
           to
           our
           apprehension
           (
           which
           are
           the
           Image
           and
           Ornament
           of
           that
           thought
           )
           may
           be
           so
           ill
           chosen
           as
           to
           make
           it
           appear
           in
           an
           unhandsome
           dress
           ,
           and
           rob
           it
           of
           its
           native
           Lustre
           .
           There
           is
           therefore
           a
           Liberty
           to
           be
           allow'd
           for
           the
           Expression
           ,
           neither
           is
           ▪
           it
           necessary
           that
           Wordes
           ,
           and
           Lines
           should
           be
           confin'd
           to
           the
           measure
           of
           their
           Original
           .
           The
           〈◊〉
           
           of
           an
           Authour
           ,
           generally
           speaking
           ,
           is
           to
           be
           Sacred
           and
           inviolable
           .
           If
           the
           Fancy
           of
           Ovid
           be
           luxuriant
           ,
           't
           is
           his
           Character
           ot
           be
           so
           ,
           and
           if
           I
           retrench
           it
           ,
           he
           is
           no
           longer
           Ovid.
           It
           will
           be
           replyed
           that
           he
           receives
           advantage
           by
           this
           lopping
           of
           his
           superfluous
           branches
           ,
           but
           I
           rejoyn
           that
           a
           Translator
           has
           no
           such
           Right
           :
           when
           a
           Painter
           Copies
           form
           the
           life
           ,
           I
           suppose
           he
           has
           no
           priviledge
           to
           alter
           Features
           ,
           and
           Lineaments
           ,
           under
           pretence
           that
           his
           Picture
           will
           look
           better
           :
           perhaps
           the
           Face
           which
           he
           has
           drawn
           would
           be
           more
           Exact
           ,
           if
           the
           Eyes
           ,
           or
           Nose
           were
           alter'd
           ,
           but
           't
           is
           his
           business
           to
           make
           it
           resemble
           the
           Original
           .
           In
           two
           Cases
           only
           there
           may
           a
           seeming
           difficulty
           arise
           ,
           that
           is
           ,
           if
           the
           thought
           be
           notoriously
           trivial
           or
           dishonest
           ;
           But
           he
           same
           Answer
           will
           serve
           for
           both
           ,
           that
           then
           they
           ought
           not
           to
           be
           Translated
           .
           
             
               Et
               quae
               —
            
             
               Desperes
               tractata
               nitescere
               posse
               ,
               relinquas
               .
            
          
        
         
           Thus
           I
           have
           ventur'd
           to
           give
           my
           Opinion
           on
           this
           Subject
           against
           the
           Authority
           of
           two
           great
           men
           ,
           but
           I
           hope
           without
           offence
           to
           either
           of
           their
           Memories
           ,
           for
           I
           both
           lov'd
           them
           living
           ,
           and
           reverence
           them
           now
           they
           are
           dead
           .
           But
           if
           after
           what
           I
           have
           urg'd
           ,
           it
           be
           thought
           by
           better
           Iudges
           that
           the
           praise
           of
           a
           Translation
           Consists
           in
           adding
           new
           Beauties
           to
           the
           piece
           ,
           thereby
           to
           recompence
           the
           loss
           which
           it
           sustains
           by
           change
           of
           Language
           ,
           I
           shall
           be
           willing
           to
           be
           taught
           better
           ,
           and
           to
           recant
           .
           In
           the
           mean
           time
           it
           seems
           to
           me
           ,
           that
           
           the
           true
           reason
           why
           we
           have
           so
           few
           Versions
           which
           are
           tolerable
           ,
           is
           not
           from
           the
           too
           close
           persuing
           of
           the
           Authours
           Sence
           :
           but
           because
           there
           are
           so
           few
           who
           have
           all
           the
           Talents
           which
           are
           requisite
           for
           Translation
           :
           and
           that
           there
           is
           so
           little
           praise
           and
           so
           small
           Encouragement
           for
           so
           considerable
           a
           part
           of
           Learning
           .
        
         
           To
           apply
           in
           short
           ,
           what
           has
           been
           said
           ,
           to
           this
           present
           work
           ,
           the
           Reader
           will
           here
           find
           most
           of
           the
           Translations
           ,
           with
           some
           little
           Latitude
           or
           variation
           from
           the
           Authours
           Sence
           :
           That
           of
           Oenone
           to
           Paris
           is
           in
           Mr.
           Cowleys
           way
           of
           Imitation
           only
           .
           I
           was
           desir'd
           to
           say
           that
           the
           Authour
           who
           is
           of
           the
           
             Fair
             Sex
          
           ,
           understood
           not
           Latine
           .
           But
           if
           she
           doe
           not
           ,
           I
           am
           afraid
           she
           has
           given
           us
           occasion
           to
           be
           asham'd
           who
           do
           .
        
         
           For
           my
           own
           part
           I
           am
           ready
           to
           acknowledge
           that
           I
           have
           transgress'd
           the
           Rules
           which
           I
           have
           given
           ;
           and
           taken
           more
           liberty
           than
           a
           just
           Translation
           will
           allow
           .
           But
           so
           many
           Gentlemen
           whose
           Wit
           and
           Learning
           are
           well
           known
           ,
           being
           Ioyn'd
           in
           it
           ,
           I
           doubt
           not
           but
           that
           their
           Excellencies
           will
           make
           you
           ample
           Satisfaction
           for
           my
           Errours
           .
        
         
           J.
           Dryden
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           TABLE
           .
        
         
           
             1.
             
             SAppho
             to
             Phaon
             .
             
               By
               Sir
            
             Carr
             Scrope
             .
             Page
             1
          
           
             2.
             
             Ganace
             to
             Macareus
             .
             Mr.
             Dryden
             .
             8
          
           
             3.
             
             Phillis
             to
             Demophoon
             .
             Mr.
             Pooley
             .
             18
          
           
             4.
             
             Hypermnestra
             to
             Linus
             .
             Mr.
             Wright
             .
             31
          
           
             5.
             
             Ariadne
             to
             Theseus
             .
             39
          
           
             6.
             
             Hermione
             to
             Orestes
             .
             Mr.
             Pulteney
             .
             50
          
           
             7.
             
             Leander
             to
             Hero.
             
               By
               Mr.
            
             Tate
             .
             59.
             68
          
           
             8.
             
             Hero
             to
             Leander
             
               By
               Mr.
            
             Tate
             .
             59.
             68
          
           
             9.
             
             Laodamia
             to
             Protesilaus
             .
             Mr.
             Flatman
             .
             76
          
           
             10.
             
             Phillis
             to
             Demophoon
             .
             Mr.
             Floyd
             .
             87
          
           
             11.
             
             Oenone
             to
             Paris
             .
             Mrs.
             Behn
             .
             97
          
           
             12.
             
             Paris
             to
             Helen
             .
             Mr.
             Duke
             .
             117
          
           
             13.
             
             Helen
             to
             Paris
             .
             
               L
               d.
            
             Mulgrave
             .
             
               &
               Mr.
            
             Dryden
             .
             153
          
           
             14.
             
             Penelope
             to
             Vlysses
             .
             Mr.
             Rymer
             .
             169
          
           
             15.
             
             Hipsiphyle
             to
             Iason
             .
             Mr.
             Settle
             .
             177
          
           
             16.
             
             Medea
             to
             Iason
             .
             Mr.
             Tate
             .
             189
          
           
             17.
             
             Phaedra
             to
             Hyppolitus
             ,
             Mr.
             Otway
             .
             203
          
           
             18.
             
             Dido
             to
             Aeneas
             .
             Mr.
             Dryden
             .
             215
          
           
             19.
             
             
               The
               same
               by
               another
               Hand
            
             .
             228
          
           
             20.
             
             Briseis
             to
             Achilles
             .
             Mr.
             Caryl
             .
             239
          
           
             21.
             
             Deianira
             to
             Hercules
             .
             251
          
           
             22.
             
             Acontius
             to
             Cydippe
             .
             Mr.
             Duke
             .
             260
          
           
             23.
             
             Cydippe
             to
             Acontius
             .
             Mr.
             Butler
             .
             274
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           SAPHO
           to
           PHAON
           :
        
         
           BY
           THE
           HONOURABLE
           Sir
           
             CARR
             .
             SCROPE
          
           ,
           BARONET
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             ●he
             Poetess
             Sapho
             forsaken
             by
             her
             Lover
             Phaon
             (
             who
             was
             gone
             from
             Lesbos
             to
             Sicily
             )
             and
             resolved
             ,
             in
             Despair
             ,
             to
             Drown
             her self
             ,
             writes
             this
             Letter
             to
             him
             before
             she
             Dies
             .
          
        
         
           WHile
           Ph●on
           to
           the
           flaming
           Aetna
           flies
        
         
           Consum'd
           with
           no
           less
           Fires
           poor
           Sapho
           dies
           .
        
         
           ●urn
           ,
           I
           burn
           ,
           like
           kindled
           Fields
           of
           Corn
           ,
        
         
           ●hen
           by
           the
           driving
           Winds
           the
           flames
           are
           born
           .
        
         
         
           My
           Muse
           and
           Lute
           can
           now
           no
           longer
           please
           ,
        
         
           They
           are
           th'
           Employments
           of
           a
           mind
           at
           ease
           .
        
         
           Wandring
           from
           thought
           to
           thought
           I
           sit
           alone
        
         
           All
           day
           ,
           and
           my
           once
           dear
           Companions
           shun
           .
        
         
           In
           vain
           the
           Lesbian
           Maids
           claim
           each
           a
           part
           ,
        
         
           Where
           thou
           alone
           hast
           ta'ne
           up
           all
           the
           heart
           .
        
         
           Ah
           lovely
           Youth
           !
           how
           can'st
           thou
           cruel
           prove
           ,
        
         
           When
           blooming
           years
           and
           beauty
           bid
           thee
           love
           ?
        
         
           If
           none
           but
           equal
           Charms
           thy
           heart
           can
           bind
           ,
        
         
           Then
           to
           thy self
           alone
           thou
           must
           be
           kind
           .
        
         
           Yet
           worthless
           as
           I
           am
           ,
           there
           was
           a
           time
        
         
           When
           Phaon
           thought
           me
           worthy
           his
           Esteem
           .
        
         
           A
           thousand
           tender
           things
           to
           mind
           I
           call
           ,
        
         
           For
           they
           who
           truly
           Love
           remember
           all
           .
        
         
           Delighted
           with
           the
           Musick
           of
           my
           Tongue
           ,
        
         
           Upon
           my
           words
           with
           silent
           Joy
           he
           hung
           ,
        
         
           And
           snatching
           Kisses
           ,
           stop'd
           me
           as
           I
           sung
           .
        
         
         
           Kisses
           ,
           whose
           melting
           touch
           ,
           his
           Soul
           did
           move
           ,
        
         
           The
           earnest
           of
           the
           coming
           joyes
           of
           Love.
        
         
           Then
           tender
           words
           ,
           short
           sighs
           ,
           &
           thousand
           charms
        
         
           Of
           wanton
           Arts
           endear'd
           me
           to
           his
           Arms
           ;
        
         
           Till
           both
           expiring
           with
           tumultuous
           Joys
           ,
        
         
           A
           gentle
           faintness
           did
           our
           Limbs
           surprize
           .
        
         
           Beware
           ,
           Sicilian
           Ladies
           ,
           Ah!
           beware
        
         
           How
           you
           receive
           my
           faithless
           Wanderer
           .
        
         
           You
           too
           will
           be
           abus'd
           ,
           if
           you
           believe
        
         
           The
           flattering
           words
           that
           he
           so
           well
           can
           give
           .
        
         
           Loose
           to
           the
           Winds
           I
           let
           my
           flowing
           Hair
           ,
        
         
           No
           more
           with
           fragrant
           scents
           perfume
           the
           Air
           ,
        
         
           But
           all
           my
           Dress
           discovers
           wild
           Despair
           .
        
         
           For
           whom
           alas
           !
           should
           now
           my
           Art
           be
           shown
           ?
        
         
           The
           only
           Man
           I
           car'd
           to
           please
           is
           gone
           .
        
         
           Oh
           let
           me
           once
           more
           see
           those
           Eyes
           of
           thine
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Love
           I
           ask
           not
           ,
           do
           but
           suffer
           mine
           .
        
         
         
           Thou
           might'st
           at
           least
           have
           ta'ne
           thy
           last
           farewel
           ,
        
         
           And
           feign'd
           a
           sorrow
           which
           thou
           didst
           not
           feel
           .
        
         
           No
           kind
           remembring
           Pledge
           was
           ask'd
           by
           thee
           ,
        
         
           And
           nothing
           left
           but
           Injuries
           with
           me
           .
        
         
           Witness
           ye
           Gods
           ,
           with
           what
           a
           Death-like
           cold
        
         
           My
           heart
           was
           seiz'd
           when
           first
           thy
           flight
           was
           told
           .
        
         
           Speechless
           and
           stupid
           for
           a
           while
           I
           lay
           ,
        
         
           And
           neither
           words
           ,
           nor
           tears
           could
           find
           their
           way
           .
        
         
           But
           when
           my
           swelling
           Passion
           forc'd
           a
           vent
           ,
        
         
           With
           Hair
           dishevel'd
           ,
           Clothes
           in
           pieces
           rent
           ;
        
         
           Like
           some
           sad
           Mother
           through
           the
           Streets
           I
           run
           ,
        
         
           Who
           to
           his
           Grave
           attends
           her
           only
           Son.
        
         
           Expos'd
           to
           all
           the
           World
           my self
           I
           see
           ,
        
         
           Forgetting
           Vertue
           ,
           Fame
           ,
           and
           all
           but
           thee
           ;
        
         
           So
           ill
           alas
           !
           do
           Love
           and
           Shame
           agree
           !
        
         
           'T
           is
           thou
           alone
           that
           art
           my
           constant
           care
           ,
        
         
           In
           pleasing
           Dreams
           thou
           comfort'st
           my
           Despair
           ;
        
         
         
           And
           mak'st
           the
           night
           ,
           that
           does
           thy
           form
           convey
           ,
        
         
           Welcome
           to
           me
           above
           the
           fairest
           day
           .
        
         
           Then
           '
           spight
           of
           absence
           I
           thy
           Love
           enjoy
           ,
        
         
           In
           close
           embraces
           lockt
           ,
           methinks
           ,
           we
           lye
           ;
        
         
           Thy
           tender
           words
           I
           hear
           ,
           thy
           Kisses
           feel
           ,
        
         
           With
           all
           the
           Joys
           that
           shame
           forbids
           to
           tell
           .
        
         
           But
           when
           I
           waking
           miss
           thee
           from
           my
           bed
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           my
           pleasing
           Images
           are
           fled
           ;
        
         
           The
           dear
           deluding
           Vision
           to
           retain
           ,
        
         
           I
           lay
           me
           down
           ,
           and
           try
           to
           sleep
           again
           .
        
         
           Soon
           as
           I
           rise
           ,
           I
           haunt
           the
           Caves
           and
           Groves
        
         
           (
           Those
           conscious
           scenes
           of
           our
           once
           happy
           loves
           )
        
         
           There
           like
           some
           frantick
           Bacchanal
           I
           walk
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           my self
           with
           sad
           distraction
           talk
           .
        
         
           Then
           big
           with
           grief
           I
           throw
           me
           on
           the
           ground
           ,
        
         
           And
           view
           the
           melancholy
           Grotto
           round
           ;
        
         
           Whose
           hanging
           roof
           of
           Moss
           and
           craggy
           Stone
        
         
           Delights
           my
           eyes
           above
           the
           brightest
           Throne
           .
        
         
         
           But
           when
           I
           spy
           the
           bank
           ,
           whose
           grassy
           bed
        
         
           Retains
           the
           print
           our
           weary
           bodies
           made
           ,
        
         
           On
           thy
           forsaken
           side
           I
           lay
           me
           down
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           a
           shower
           of
           tears
           the
           place
           I
           drown
           .
        
         
           The
           Trees
           are
           wither'd
           all
           since
           thou
           art
           gone
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           for
           thee
           they
           put
           their
           Mourning
           on
           .
        
         
           No
           warbling
           Bird
           does
           now
           with
           Musick
           fill
        
         
           The
           Woods
           ,
           except
           the
           mournful
           Philomel
           .
        
         
           With
           hers
           my
           dismal
           Notes
           all
           night
           agree
           ,
        
         
           Of
           Tereus
           she
           complains
           ,
           and
           I
           of
           thee
           .
        
         
           Ungentle
           Youth
           !
           did'st
           thou
           but
           see
           me
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           Hard
           as
           thou
           art
           ,
           thou
           would'st
           ,
           thou
           would'st
           return
           .
        
         
           My
           constant
           falling
           tears
           the
           Paper
           stain
           ,
        
         
           And
           my
           weak
           hand
           can
           scarce
           direct
           my
           Pen.
        
         
           Oh
           could
           thy
           eyes
           but
           reach
           my
           dreadful
           slate
           ,
        
         
           As
           now
           I
           stand
           prepar'd
           for
           sudden
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           couldst
           not
           see
           this
           naked
           breast
           of
           mine
        
         
           Dasht
           against
           Rocks
           ,
           rather
           than
           joyn'd
           to
           thine
           .
        
         
         
           Peace
           ,
           Sapho
           ,
           peace
           !
           thou
           send'st
           thy
           fruitless
           crys
        
         
           To
           one
           more
           hard
           than
           rocks
           ,
           more
           deaf
           than
           seas
           .
        
         
           The
           flying
           Winds
           bear
           thy
           Complaints
           away
           ,
        
         
           But
           none
           will
           ever
           back
           his
           Sails
           convey
           .
        
         
           No
           longer
           then
           thy
           hopeless
           Love
           attend
           ,
        
         
           But
           let
           thy
           Life
           here
           with
           thy
           Letter
           end
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           CANACE
           to
           MACAREUS
           :
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           DRYDEN
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Macareus
             and
             Canace
             Son
             and
             Daughter
             to
             Aeolus
             ,
             God
             of
             the
             Winds
             ,
             lov'd
             each
             other
             Incestuously
             :
             Canace
             was
             delivered
             of
             a
             Son
             ,
             and
             committed
             him
             to
             her
             Nurse
             ,
             to
             be
             secretly
             convey'd
             away
             .
             The
             Infant
             crying
             out
             ,
             by
             that
             means
             was
             discover'd
             to
             
               Aeolus
               ▪
            
             who
             inrag'd
             at
             the
             wickedness
             of
             his
             Children
             ,
             commanded
             the
             Babe
             to
             be
             expos'd
             to
             Wild
             Beasts
             on
             the
             Mountains
             :
             and
             ,
             withal
             ,
             sent
             a
             Sword
             to
             Canace
             ,
             with
             this
             Message
             ,
             That
             her
             Crimes
             would
             instruct
             her
             how
             to
             use
             it
             .
             With
             this
             Sword
             she
             slew
             her self
             :
             but
             before
             she
             died
             ,
             she
             writ
             the
             following
             Letter
             to
             her
             Brother
             Macareus
             ,
             who
             had
             taken
             Sanctuary
             in
             the
             Temple
             of
             Apollo
             .
          
        
         
           IF
           streaming
           blood
           my
           fatal
           Letter
           stain
           ,
        
         
           Imagine
           ,
           er'e
           you
           read
           ,
           the
           Writer
           slain
           :
        
         
           One
           hand
           the
           Sword
           ,
           and
           one
           the
           Pen
           employs
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           my
           lap
           the
           ready
           paper
           lyes
           .
        
         
         
           Think
           in
           this
           posture
           thou
           behold'st
           me
           Write
           :
        
         
           In
           this
           my
           cruel
           Father
           wou'd
           delight
           .
        
         
           O
           were
           he
           present
           ,
           that
           his
           eyes
           and
           hands
        
         
           Might
           see
           &
           urge
           the
           death
           which
           he
           commands
           ,
        
         
           Than
           all
           his
           raging
           Winds
           more
           dreadful
           ,
           he
        
         
           Unmov'd
           ,
           without
           a
           tear
           ,
           my
           wounds
           wou'd
           see
           .
        
         
           iove
           justly
           plac'd
           him
           on
           a
           stormy
           Throne
           ,
        
         
           His
           Peoples
           temper
           is
           so
           like
           his
           own
           .
        
         
           The
           North
           and
           South
           ,
           and
           each
           contending
           blast
        
         
           Are
           underneath
           his
           wide
           Dominion
           cast
           :
        
         
           Those
           he
           can
           rule
           ;
           but
           his
           tempestuous
           mind
        
         
           Is
           ,
           like
           his
           airy
           Kingdom
           ,
           unconfin'd
           .
        
         
           Ah!
           what
           avail
           my
           Kindred
           Gods
           above
           ,
        
         
           That
           in
           their
           number
           I
           can
           reckon
           iove
           !
        
         
           What
           help
           will
           all
           my
           heav'nly
           friends
           afford
           ,
        
         
           When
           to
           my
           breast
           I
           lift
           the
           pointed
           Sword
           ?
        
         
           That
           hour
           which
           joyn'd
           us
           came
           before
           its
           time
           ,
        
         
           In
           death
           we
           had
           been
           one
           without
           a
           crime
           :
        
         
         
           Why
           did
           thy
           flames
           beyond
           a
           Brothers
           move
           ?
        
         
           Why
           lov'd
           I
           thee
           with
           more
           than
           Sisters
           love
           ?
        
         
           For
           I
           lov'd
           too
           ;
           and
           knowing
           not
           my
           wound
           ,
        
         
           A
           secret
           pleasure
           in
           thy
           Kisses
           found
           :
        
         
           My
           Cheeks
           no
           longer
           did
           their
           colour
           boast
           ,
        
         
           My
           Food
           grew
           loathsom
           ,
           and
           my
           strength
           I
           lost
           :
        
         
           Still
           er'e
           I
           spoke
           ,
           a
           sigh
           wou'd
           stop
           my
           tongue
           ;
        
         
           Short
           were
           my
           slumbers
           ,
           &
           my
           nights
           were
           long
           .
        
         
           I
           knew
           not
           from
           my
           love
           these
           griefs
           did
           grow
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           was
           ,
           alas
           ,
           the
           thing
           I
           did
           not
           know
           .
        
         
           My
           wily
           Nurse
           by
           long
           experience
           found
           ,
        
         
           And
           first
           discover'd
           to
           my
           Soul
           its
           wound
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           Love
           ,
           said
           she
           ;
           and
           then
           my
           down-cast
           eyes
           ,
        
         
           And
           guilty
           dumbness
           ,
           witness'd
           my
           surprize
           .
        
         
           Forc'd
           at
           the
           last
           ,
           my
           shameful
           pain
           I
           tell
           :
        
         
           And
           ,
           oh
           ,
           what
           follow'd
           we
           both
           know
           too
           well
           !
        
         
           '
           When
           half
           denying
           ,
           more
           than
           half
           content
           ,
        
         
           '
           Embraces
           warm'd
           me
           to
           a
           full
           consent
           :
        
         
         
           Then
           with
           Tumultuous
           Joyes
           my
           Heart
           did
           beat
           ,
        
         
           And
           guilt
           that
           made
           them
           anxious
           ,
           made
           them
           great
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           my
           swelling
           womb
           heav'd
           up
           my
           breast
           ,
        
         
           And
           rising
           weight
           my
           sinking
           Limbs
           opprest
           .
        
         
           What
           Herbs
           ,
           what
           Plants
           ,
           did
           not
           my
           Nurse
           produce
        
         
           To
           make
           Abortion
           by
           their
           pow'rful
           Juice
           ?
        
         
           What
           Medicines
           try'd
           we
           not
           to
           thee
           unknown
           ?
        
         
           Our
           first
           crime
           common
           ;
           this
           was
           mine
           alone
           .
        
         
           But
           the
           strong
           Child
           ,
           secure
           in
           his
           dark
           Cell
           ,
        
         
           With
           Natures
           vigour
           did
           our
           arts
           repell
           .
        
         
           And
           now
           the
           pale-fac'd
           Empress
           of
           the
           Night
        
         
           Nine
           times
           had
           fill'd
           her
           Orb
           with
           borrow'd
           light
           :
        
         
           Not
           knowing
           't
           was
           my
           Labour
           ,
           I
           complain
        
         
           Of
           sudden
           shootings
           ,
           and
           of
           grinding
           pain
           :
        
         
           My
           throws
           came
           thicker
           ,
           and
           my
           cryes
           increast
           ,
        
         
           Which
           with
           her
           hand
           the
           conscious
           Nurse
           supprest
           :
        
         
         
           To
           that
           unhappy
           fortune
           was
           I
           come
           ,
        
         
           Pain
           urg'd
           my
           clamours
           ;
           but
           fear
           kept
           me
           dumb
           .
        
         
           With
           inward
           struggling
           I
           restrain'd
           my
           cries
           ;
        
         
           And
           drunk
           the
           tears
           that
           trickled
           from
           my
           eyes
           .
        
         
           Death
           was
           in
           sight
           ,
           Lucina
           gave
           no
           aid
           ;
        
         
           And
           ev'n
           my
           dying
           had
           my
           guilt
           betray'd
           .
        
         
           Thou
           cam'st
           ;
           and
           in
           thy
           Count'nance
           sate
           Despair
           :
        
         
           Rent
           were
           thy
           Garments
           all
           ,
           and
           torn
           thy
           Hair
           :
        
         
           Yet
           ,
           feigning
           comfort
           which
           thou
           cou'dst
           not
           give
           ,
        
         
           (
           Prest
           in
           thy
           Arms
           ,
           and
           whisp'ring
           me
           to
           live
           )
        
         
           For
           both
           our
           sakes
           ,
           (
           said'st
           thou
           )
           preserve
           thy
           life
           ;
        
         
           Live
           ,
           my
           dear
           Sister
           ,
           and
           my
           dearer
           Wife
           .
        
         
           Rais'd
           by
           that
           name
           ,
           with
           my
           last
           pangs
           I
           strove
           :
        
         
           Such
           pow'r
           have
           words
           ,
           when
           spoke
           by
           those
           we
           love
           .
        
         
           The
           Babe
           ,
           as
           if
           he
           heard
           what
           thou
           hadst
           sworn
           ,
        
         
           With
           hasty
           joy
           sprung
           forward
           to
           be
           born
           .
        
         
         
           What
           helps
           it
           to
           have
           weather'd
           out
           one
           Storm
           ?
        
         
           Fear
           of
           our
           Father
           does
           another
           form
           .
        
         
           High
           in
           his
           Hall
           ,
           rock'd
           in
           a
           Chair
           of
           State
           ,
        
         
           The
           King
           with
           his
           tempestuous
           Council
           sate
           :
        
         
           Through
           this
           large
           Room
           our
           only
           passage
           lay
           ,
        
         
           By
           which
           we
           cou'd
           the
           new-born
           Babe
           convey
           .
        
         
           Swath'd
           ,
           in
           her
           lap
           ,
           the
           bold
           Nurse
           bore
           him
           out
           ;
        
         
           With
           Olive
           branches
           cover'd
           round
           about
           :
        
         
           And
           ,
           mutt'ring
           pray'rs
           ,
           as
           holy
           Rites
           she
           meant
           ,
        
         
           Through
           the
           divided
           Crowd
           ,
           unquestion'd
           ,
           went.
        
         
           Just
           at
           the
           door
           th'
           unhappy
           Infant
           cry'd
           :
        
         
           The
           Grandsire
           heard
           him
           ,
           and
           the
           theft
           he
           spy'd
           .
        
         
           Swift
           as
           a
           Whirl-wind
           to
           the
           Nurse
           he
           flyes
           ;
        
         
           And
           deafs
           his
           stormy
           Subjects
           with
           his
           cries
           .
        
         
           With
           one
           fierce
           puff
           ,
           he
           blows
           the
           leaves
           away
           :
        
         
           Expos'd
           the
           self-discover'd
           Infant
           lay
           .
        
         
           ●he
           noise
           reach'd
           me
           ,
           and
           my
           presaging
           mind
        
         
           ●oo
           soon
           it
           s
           own
           approaching
           woes
           divin'd
           .
        
         
         
           Not
           Ships
           at
           Sea
           with
           winds
           are
           shaken
           more
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           Seas
           themselves
           ,
           when
           angry
           Tempests
           roar
        
         
           Than
           I
           ,
           when
           my
           loud
           Fathers
           voice
           I
           hear
           :
        
         
           The
           Bed
           beneath
           me
           trembled
           with
           my
           fear
           .
        
         
           He
           rush'd
           upon
           me
           ,
           and
           divulg'd
           my
           stain
           ;
        
         
           Scarce
           from
           my
           Murther
           cou'd
           his
           hands
           refrain
           .
        
         
           I
           only
           answer'd
           him
           with
           silent
           tears
           ;
        
         
           They
           flow'd
           ;
           my
           tongue
           was
           frozen
           up
           with
           fears
        
         
           His
           little
           Grandchild
           he
           commands
           away
           ,
        
         
           To
           Mountain
           Wolves
           ,
           and
           every
           Bird
           of
           prey
           .
        
         
           The
           Babe
           cry'd
           out
           ,
           as
           if
           he
           understood
           ,
        
         
           And
           beg'd
           his
           pardon
           with
           what
           voice
           he
           cou'd
           .
        
         
           By
           what
           expressions
           can
           my
           grief
           be
           shown
           ?
        
         
           (
           Yet
           you
           may
           guess
           my
           anguish
           by
           your
           own
           )
        
         
           To
           see
           my
           bowels
           ,
           and
           what
           yet
           was
           worse
           ,
        
         
           Your
           bowels
           too
           ,
           condemn'd
           to
           such
           a
           Curse
           !
        
         
           Out
           went
           the
           King
           ;
           my
           voice
           its
           freedom
           found
           ,
        
         
           My
           breasts
           I
           beat
           ,
           my
           blubber'd
           Cheeks
           I
           wound
           .
        
         
         
           And
           now
           appear'd
           the
           Messenger
           of
           death
           ,
        
         
           Sad
           were
           his
           Looks
           ,
           and
           scarce
           he
           drew
           his
           Breath
           ,
        
         
           To
           say
           ,
           
             Your
             Father
             sends
             you
          
           —
           (
           with
           that
           word
        
         
           His
           trembling
           hands
           presented
           me
           a
           Sword
           :
           )
        
         
           Your
           Father
           sends
           you
           this
           :
           and
           lets
           you
           know
        
         
           That
           your
           own
           Crimes
           the
           use
           of
           it
           will
           show
           .
        
         
           Too
           well
           I
           know
           the
           sence
           those
           words
           impart
           :
        
         
           His
           Present
           shall
           be
           treasur'd
           in
           my
           heart
           .
        
         
           Are
           these
           the
           Nuptial
           Gifts
           a
           Bride
           receives
           ?
        
         
           And
           this
           the
           fatal
           Dow'r
           a
           Father
           gives
           ?
        
         
           Thou
           God
           of
           Marriage
           shun
           thy
           own
           disgrace
           ;
        
         
           And
           take
           thy
           Torch
           from
           this
           detested
           place
           :
        
         
           ●nstead
           of
           that
           ,
           let
           Furies
           light
           their
           brands
           ;
        
         
           ●nd
           Fire
           my
           pile
           with
           their
           infernal
           hands
           .
        
         
           With
           happier
           fortune
           may
           my
           Sisters
           wed
           ;
        
         
           ●arn'd
           by
           the
           dire
           Example
           of
           the
           dead
           .
        
         
         
           For
           thee
           ,
           poor
           Babe
           ,
           what
           Crime
           cou'd
           they
           pretend
           ?
        
         
           How
           cou'd
           thy
           Infant
           innocence
           offend
           ?
        
         
           A
           guilt
           there
           was
           ;
           but
           oh
           that
           guilt
           was
           mine
           !
        
         
           Thou
           suffer'st
           for
           a
           sin
           that
           was
           not
           thine
           .
        
         
           Thy
           Mothers
           grief
           and
           Crime
           !
           but
           just
           enjoy'd
           ,
        
         
           Shown
           to
           my
           sight
           ,
           and
           born
           to
           be
           destroy'd
           !
        
         
           Unhappy
           Off-spring
           of
           my
           teeming
           Womb
           !
        
         
           Drag'd
           head-long
           from
           thy
           Cradle
           to
           thy
           Tomb
           !
        
         
           Thy
           unoffending
           life
           I
           could
           not
           save
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           weeping
           cou'd
           I
           follow
           to
           thy
           Grave
           !
        
         
           Nor
           on
           thy
           Tomb
           cou'd
           offer
           my
           shorn
           Hair
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           show
           the
           grief
           which
           tender
           Mothers
           bear
           .
        
         
           Yet
           long
           thou
           shalt
           not
           from
           my
           Arms
           be
           lost
           ,
        
         
           For
           soon
           I
           will
           o're-take
           thy
           Infant
           Ghost
           .
        
         
           But
           thou
           ,
           my
           Love
           ,
           and
           now
           my
           Love's
           Despair
           ,
        
         
           Perform
           his
           Funerals
           with
           paternal
           care
           .
        
         
         
           ●is
           scatter'd
           Limbs
           with
           my
           dead
           body
           burn
           ;
        
         
           ●nd
           once
           more
           joyn
           us
           in
           the
           pious
           Urn.
        
         
           ●f
           on
           my
           wounded
           breast
           thou
           drop'st
           a
           tear
           ,
        
         
           ●hink
           for
           whose
           sake
           my
           breast
           that
           wound
           did
           bear
           ;
        
         
           ●nd
           faithfully
           my
           last
           desires
           fulfill
           ,
        
         
           ●s
           I
           perform
           my
           cruel
           Fathers
           will.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           PHILLIS
           to
           DEMOPHOON
           :
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           
             ED.
             POLEY
          
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Demophoon
             who
             was
             Son
             to
             Theseus
             and
             Phaedra
             ,
             in
             returning
             from
             the
             Trojan
             War
             into
             his
             own
             Country
             ,
             was
             by
             a
             Tempest
             driven
             upon
             the
             Coasts
             of
             Thrace
             ;
             where
             Phillis
             ,
             who
             was
             then
             Queen
             of
             Thrace
             ,
             entertained
             him
             ,
             and
             Marryed
             him
             .
             When
             he
             had
             staid
             with
             her
             some
             time
             ,
             he
             heard
             that
             Menestheus
             was
             dead
             (
             who
             after
             he
             had
             Conquer'd
             Theseus
             ,
             had
             Vsurp'd
             the
             Government
             of
             Athens
             )
             and
             under
             pretence
             of
             setling
             his
             own
             Affairs
             ,
             he
             went
             to
             Athens
             ,
             and
             promised
             the
             Queen
             ,
             that
             he
             would
             come
             back
             again
             in
             a
             Mo●th
             .
             When
             he
             had
             been
             gone
             four
             Months
             ,
             and
             that
             she
             had
             heard
             no
             News
             of
             him
             ,
             she
             writes
             him
             this
             Letter
             .
          
        
         
           YOu
           've
           gone
           beyond
           your
           time
           ,
           and
           ought
           to
           give
           ▪
        
         
           So
           kind
           a
           Wife
           as
           Phillis
           leave
           to
           grieve
           .
        
         
           You
           promis'd
           me
           you
           would
           no
           longer
           stay
           ,
        
         
           Then
           till
           the
           first
           full
           Moon
           should
           light
           your
           way
           .
        
         
         
           Thrice
           did
           it
           since
           its
           borrow'd
           light
           renew
           ,
        
         
           And
           thrice
           has
           chang'd
           ,
           but
           not
           so
           much
           as
           you
           .
        
         
           Did
           you
           the
           Daies
           ,
           and
           Hours
           ,
           and
           Minutes
           tell
           ,
        
         
           As
           Phillis
           does
           ,
           and
           they
           that
           love
           so
           well
           ,
        
         
           You
           'd
           say
           ,
           't
           were
           time
           to
           weep
           ;
           your
           sorrows
           too
        
         
           Would
           justifie
           those
           Tears
           she
           sheds
           for
           you
           .
        
         
           Still
           did
           I
           hope
           ,
           and
           thought
           you
           'd
           still
           be
           here
           ;
        
         
           We
           hardly
           can
           believe
           those
           things
           we
           fear
           ,
        
         
           Now
           't
           is
           too
           plain
           ,
           and
           spight
           of
           Love
           and
           you
           ,
        
         
           ●must
           both
           fear
           it
           ,
           and
           believe
           it
           too
           .
        
         
           ●ow
           oft
           did
           I
           deceive
           my self
           ,
           and
           swore
           ,
        
         
           ●saw
           your
           Ship
           just
           making
           to
           the
           Shore
           ?
        
         
           ●hen
           Curs'd
           those
           Friends
           I
           thought
           had
           caus'd
           your
           stay
           ,
        
         
           ●ould
           you
           were
           half
           so
           innocent
           as
           they
           .
        
         
           ●●metimes
           I
           fear'd
           ,
           by
           foaming
           billows
           ●ost
           ,
        
         
           ●ou
           might
           be
           Shipwrack'd
           while
           you
           sought
           the
           Coast
           ;
        
         
         
           And
           griev'd
           t'
           have
           injur'd
           whom
           I
           thought
           so
           true
           ,
        
         
           I
           beg'd
           that
           pardon
           ,
           I
           'd
           refus'd
           to
           you
           .
        
         
           Then
           ,
           cruel
           Man
           !
           did
           I
           the
           Gods
           Implore
        
         
           To
           let
           you
           live
           ,
           though
           I
           ne're
           saw
           you
           more
           .
        
         
           When
           I
           a
           favourable
           Gale
           espy'd
           ,
        
         
           He
           comes
           ,
           if
           he
           's
           alive
           ,
           he
           comes
           ,
           I
           cry'd
           .
        
         
           And
           thus
           my
           love
           still
           sought
           some
           new
           pretence
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           grew
           Eloquent
           in
           your
           defence
           .
        
         
           Yet
           thou
           avoid'st
           me
           still
           ,
           nor
           do
           I
           see
        
         
           Those
           promises
           thou
           mad'st
           to
           Heaven
           and
           me
           .
        
         
           '
           But
           thy
           false
           Vows
           ,
           alas
           !
           were
           all
           but
           Wind
           ,
        
         
           '
           Thy
           vows
           and
           wishes
           made
           the
           gale
           more
           kind
           ;
        
         
           '
           They
           ●ill'd
           your
           Sails
           ,
           and
           you
           were
           forc'd
           away
           ,
        
         
           '
           By
           the
           same
           wishes
           ,
           which
           you
           made
           to
           stay
           .
        
         
           What
           have
           I
           done
           ,
           but
           lov'd
           to
           an
           excess
           ?
        
         
           You
           'd
           not
           been
           guilty
           had
           I
           lov'd
           you
           l●ss
           .
        
         
           My
           only
           Crime
           is
           ,
           loving
           you
           too
           well
           ,
        
         
           But
           sure
           some
           Merit
           in
           that
           Crime
           does
           dwell
           .
        
         
         
           Where
           's
           now
           your
           Faith
           ?
           and
           where
           's
           the
           Love
           you
           bore
           ?
        
         
           Where
           are
           the
           Gods
           by
           whom
           you
           falsly
           swore
           ?
        
         
           Where
           's
           Hymen
           too
           ,
           who
           joyn'd
           our
           tender
           years
           ?
        
         
           ●e
           bid
           me
           Love
           ,
           and
           banish'd
           all
           my
           Fears
           .
        
         
           ●ou
           swore
           by
           th'
           swelling
           billows
           of
           the
           Main
           ,
        
         
           ●hich
           oft
           you'd
           tried
           ,
           and
           would
           yet
           trust
           again
           ,
        
         
           ●ather
           than
           stay
           with
           me
           ,
           though
           much
           more
           kind
           ,
        
         
           ●nd
           constant
           too
           ,
           than
           are
           the
           Seas
           or
           Wind.
        
         
           ●ou
           swore
           by
           th'
           Mighty
           Ruler
           of
           the
           Flood
           ,
        
         
           ●he
           heav'nly
           Author
           of
           your
           Royal
           Blood
           ;
        
         
           If
           er'e
           a
           God
           had
           any
           thing
           to
           do
        
         
           〈◊〉
           one
           so
           ●alse
           ,
           and
           so
           unkind
           as
           you
           .
        
         
           ●ou
           swore
           by
           Venus
           ,
           and
           the
           fatal
           steel
        
         
           ●f
           those
           proud
           Darts
           ,
           which
           too
           too
           much
           I
           feel
           ;
        
         
           ●nd
           by
           great
           Iuno
           ,
           whose
           resistless
           Art
        
         
           ●ave
           thee
           my
           Hand
           ,
           when
           I
           had
           giv'n
           my
           Heart
           .
        
         
         
           Thou
           swor'st
           so
           much
           ,
           that
           if
           each
           God
           should
           be
        
         
           Just
           ,
           to
           revenge
           his
           injur'd
           self
           and
           me
           ;
        
         
           Such
           numerous
           mischiefs
           on
           thy
           head
           would
           fall
           ,
        
         
           thou
           'dst
           not
           have
           room
           enough
           to
           bear
           them
           all
           .
        
         
           Distracted
           I
           ,
           as
           if
           I
           'ad
           fear'd
           your
           stay
           ,
        
         
           Repair'd
           your
           Ships
           to
           hurry
           you
           away
           .
        
         
           What
           haste
           you
           wanted
           ,
           my
           curs'd
           care
           supply'd
           ,
        
         
           Oars
           to
           your
           Sails
           ,
           and
           Current
           to
           your
           Tide
           .
        
         
           Thus
           was
           I
           falsly
           by
           my self
           betray'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           perish
           by
           the
           wounds
           my
           hands
           have
           made
           .
        
         
           I
           foolishly
           believ'd
           all
           th'
           Oaths
           you
           swore
           ,
        
         
           The
           Race
           you
           boasted
           ,
           and
           the
           Gods
           you
           bore
           .
        
         
           Who
           could
           have
           thought
           such
           gentle
           words
           er'e
           hung
        
         
           Upon
           a
           treacherous
           ,
           deluding
           Tongue
           ?
        
         
           I
           saw
           your
           tears
           ,
           and
           I
           believ'd
           them
           all
           ,
        
         
           Can
           they
           lye
           too
           ,
           and
           are
           they
           taught
           to
           fall
           ?
        
         
           What
           needed
           all
           that
           numerous
           Perjury
           ?
        
         
           One
           was
           enough
           to
           her
           that
           lov'd
           like
           me
           .
        
         
         
           I
           'me
           not
           asham'd
           I
           did
           your
           Ships
           receive
           ,
        
         
           And
           your
           own
           wants
           did
           carefully
           relieve
           ;
        
         
           Those
           Debts
           I
           ought
           you
           on
           a
           nobler
           score
           ,
        
         
           But
           then
           ,
           't
           is
           true
           ,
           I
           should
           have
           done
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           All
           I
           repent
           ,
           is
           that
           I
           basely
           strove
        
         
           T'
           increase
           your
           welcom
           by
           a
           Nuptial
           Love.
        
         
           That
           night
           that
           usher'd
           in
           th'
           unhappy
           day
           ,
        
         
           Which
           did
           me
           to
           your
           guilty
           Love
           betray
           ;
        
         
           I
           wish
           that
           fatal
           Night
           had
           been
           my
           last
           ;
        
         
           Then
           I
           had
           died
           ,
           but
           then
           I
           had
           been
           Chast.
        
         
           ●
           hop'd
           you
           were
           ,
           'cause
           I
           deserv'd
           you
           ,
           True
           ,
        
         
           ●s
           it
           a
           Crime
           to
           wish
           what
           is
           our
           due
           ?
        
         
           T
           is
           sure
           no
           mighty
           Glory
           to
           deceive
        
         
           ●
           tender
           Maid
           ,
           so
           willing
           to
           believe
           .
        
         
           ●y
           weakness
           does
           but
           heighten
           your
           offenc●
           ,
        
         
           ●ou
           kindly
           should
           have
           spar'd
           my
           innocence
           .
        
         
           ●ou've
           gain'd
           a
           Maid
           that
           lov'd
           you
           ,
           and
           may
           't
           be
        
         
           ●our
           greatest
           Prise
           ,
           and
           only
           Victory
           .
        
         
         
           May
           your
           proud
           Statue
           rais'd
           by
           this
           success
           ,
        
         
           Shame
           your
           great
           Father
           ,
           'cause
           his
           Crimes
           were
           less
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           late
           story
           shall
           of
           Tyrants
           tell
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           whom
           Scyron
           ,
           and
           Procrustes
           fell
           ;
        
         
           The
           Centaurs
           flight
           ,
           the
           Thebans
           Over-throw
           ,
        
         
           Who
           't
           was
           durst
           force
           the
           dismal
           Shades
           below
           ;
        
         
           Then
           for
           your
           Honour
           shall
           at
           last
           be
           said
           ,
        
         
           Here
           's
           He
           ,
           who
           by
           a
           wretched
           wile
           betray'd
        
         
           A
           Loving
           ,
           Innocent
           ,
           Believing
           Maid
           .
        
         
           Of
           all
           those
           Acts
           we
           in
           your
           Father
           knew
           ,
        
         
           His
           Treachery
           alone
           remains
           in
           you
           .
        
         
           What
           only
           can
           excuse
           the
           Ills
           you
           do
           ,
        
         
           You
           both
           Inherit
           ,
           and
           Admire
           it
           too
           .
        
         
           He
           Ariadne
           did
           betray
           ,
           but
           she
        
         
           Enjoys
           a
           Husband
           mightier
           far
           than
           He.
        
         
           But
           the
           scorn'd
           Thracians
           my
           Embraces
           shun
           ,
        
         
           'Cause
           I
           from
           them
           into
           thy
           Arms
           did
           run
           .
        
         
           Let
           her
           ,
           they
           cry
           ,
           to
           learned
           Greece
           be
           gone
           ,
        
         
         
           We
           'll
           find
           a
           Monarch
           to
           supply
           the
           Throne
           .
        
         
           Thus
           all
           we
           do
           depends
           on
           an
           ill
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Which
           does
           for
           ever
           on
           th'
           unhappy
           wait
           ;
        
         
           But
           may
           that
           Fate
           all
           his
           best
           thoughts
           attend
           ,
        
         
           Who
           Judges
           others
           Actions
           by
           the
           end
           .
        
         
           For
           should'st
           thou
           ever
           bless
           these
           Seas
           again
           ,
        
         
           They
           'd
           praise
           that
           Love
           ,
           of
           which
           they
           now
           complain
           .
        
         
           Then
           would
           they
           say
           ,
           
             What
             could
             she
             better
             do
          
        
         
           Both
           for
           her self
           ,
           and
           for
           her
           Kingdom
           too
           ?
        
         
           But
           I
           have
           err'd
           ,
           and
           thou'
           rt
           for
           ever
           fled
           ,
        
         
           Forget'st
           my
           Empire
           ,
           and
           forget'st
           my
           Bed.
        
         
           Methinks
           ,
           I
           see
           thee
           still
           ,
           Demophoon
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Sails
           all
           hoisted
           ,
           ready
           to
           be
           gone
           .
        
         
           When
           boldly
           thou
           didst
           my
           soft
           Limbs
           embrace
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           long
           Kisses
           dwelt'st
           upon
           my
           Face
           ;
        
         
           Drown'd
           in
           my
           Tears
           ,
           and
           in
           your
           own
           you
           lay
           ,
        
         
           And
           curs'd
           the
           Winds
           that
           hastn'd
           you
           away
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           parting
           cry'd
           (
           methinks
           I
           hear
           thee
           still
           )
        
         
           Phillis
           
             I
             'll
             come
             ,
             you
             may
             be
             sure
             I
             will.
          
        
         
           Can
           I
           expect
           that
           thou
           'lt
           er'e
           see
           this
           Shore
           ,
        
         
           Who
           leftst
           it
           that
           thou
           ne're
           mightst
           see
           me
           more
           ?
        
         
           And
           yet
           I
           beg
           you
           'd
           come
           too
           ,
           that
           you
           may
        
         
           Be
           only
           guilty
           in
           too
           long
           a
           stay
           .
        
         
           What
           do
           I
           ask
           ?
           thou
           by
           new
           Charms
           possess'd
           ,
        
         
           Forget'st
           my
           kindness
           on
           another
           Breast
           ;
        
         
           '
           And
           better
           to
           compleat
           the
           Treachery
           ,
        
         
           '
           Swear'st
           all
           those
           Oaths
           ,
           which
           thou
           hast
           broke
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           And
           hast
           (
           false
           Man
           )
           perhaps
           forgot
           my
           Name
           ,
        
         
           And
           ask'st
           too
           ,
           who
           I
           am
           ,
           and
           whence
           I
           came
           ?
        
         
           But
           that
           thou
           better
           maist
           remember
           me
           ,
        
         
           Know
           ,
           thou
           ungrateful
           man
           ,
           that
           ,
           I
           am
           she
           ,
        
         
           Who
           when
           thou'dst
           wander'd
           all
           the
           Ocean
           or'e
           ,
        
         
           Harbour'd
           thy
           Ships
           ,
           and
           welcom'd
           thee
           to
           Shore
           .
        
         
           Thy
           Coffers
           still
           replenish'd
           from
           my
           own
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           that
           height
           a
           Prodigal
           was
           grown
           ,
        
         
         
           I
           gave
           thee
           all
           thou
           ask'dst
           ,
           and
           gave
           so
           fast
           ,
        
         
           I
           gave
           my self
           into
           thy
           power
           at
           last
           ;
        
         
           I
           gave
           my
           Scepter
           ,
           and
           my
           Crown
           to
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           A
           weight
           too
           heavy
           to
           be
           born
           by
           me
           .
        
         
           Where
           Haemus
           does
           his
           shady
           head
           display
           ,
        
         
           And
           gentle
           Heber
           cuts
           his
           Sacred
           way
           ,
        
         
           So
           great
           's
           the
           Empire
           ,
           and
           so
           wide
           the
           Land
           ,
        
         
           Scarce
           to
           be
           govern'd
           by
           a
           Womans
           hand
           ,
        
         
           She
           whom
           Fate
           would
           not
           suffer
           to
           be
           chast
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           Nupt'als
           with
           a
           Fun'ral
           Pomp
           were
           grac'd
           ;
        
         
           Shril
           cries
           disturb'd
           us
           midst
           our
           swiftest
           joyes
           ,
        
         
           And
           our
           drawn
           curtains
           trembled
           with
           the
           noise
           ,
        
         
           Then
           close
           to
           thee
           I
           clung
           ,
           all
           drown'd
           in
           tears
           ,
        
         
           And
           sought
           my
           shelter
           where
           I
           'd
           found
           my
           fears
           .
        
         
           And
           now
           while
           others
           drown
           their
           care
           in
           sleep
           ,
        
         
           ●
           run
           toth
           '
           barren
           Shore
           ,
           and
           Rocks
           to
           weep
           ,
        
         
           And
           view
           with
           longing
           eyes
           the
           spac'ous
           Deep
           ,
        
         
         
           All
           Day
           and
           Night
           I
           the
           winds
           course
           survey
           ,
        
         
           Impatient
           till
           I
           find
           it
           blows
           this
           way
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           afar
           ,
           a
           coming
           Sail
           I
           view
           ,
        
         
           I
           thank
           my
           Stars
           ,
           and
           I
           conclude
           't
           is
           you
           .
        
         
           Then
           with
           strange
           hast
           I
           run
           my
           Love
           to
           meet
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           can
           the
           flowing
           Waters
           stop
           my
           Feet
           .
        
         
           When
           near
           ,
           I
           grow
           more
           fearful
           than
           before
           ,
        
         
           A
           suddain
           trembling
           seizes
           me
           all
           or'e
           .
        
         
           And
           leaves
           my
           body
           breathless
           on
           the
           Shore
           .
        
         
           Hard
           by
           ,
           where
           two
           huge
           Mountains
           guard
           the
           way
           ,
        
         
           There
           lies
           a
           fearful
           ,
           solitary
           Bay.
        
         
           Oft
           I
           've
           resolv'd
           ,
           while
           on
           this
           place
           I
           've
           stood
           ,
        
         
           To
           throw
           my self
           into
           the
           raging
           Flood
           ,
        
         
           Wild
           with
           Despair
           ,
           and
           I
           will
           do
           it
           still
           ,
        
         
           Since
           you
           continue
           thus
           to
           use
           me
           ill
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           the
           kinder
           Waves
           shall
           waft
           me
           or'e
           ,
        
         
           May'st
           thou
           behold
           my
           Body
           on
           the
           Shore
        
         
         
           Unburied
           lie
           ;
           and
           though
           thy
           Cruelty
        
         
           Harder
           than
           Stone
           ,
           or
           than
           thy self
           should
           be
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           shalt
           thou
           cry
           ,
           astonish'd
           with
           the
           show
           ,
        
         
           Phillis
           ,
           
             I
             was
             not
             to
             be
             follow'd
             so
             .
          
        
         
           Raging
           with
           Poisons
           would
           I
           oft
           expire
           ,
        
         
           And
           quench
           my
           own
           by
           a
           much
           happier
           Fire
           .
        
         
           Then
           to
           revenge
           the
           loss
           of
           all
           my
           Rest
           ,
        
         
           Would
           stab
           thy
           Image
           in
           my
           tortur'd
           Breast
           .
        
         
           Or
           by
           a
           Knot
           (
           more
           welcom
           far
           to
           me
        
         
           Than
           that
           ,
           false
           Man
           ,
           which
           I
           have
           tyed
           with
           thee
           ,
           )
        
         
           Strangle
           that
           Neck
           ,
           where
           those
           false
           Arms
           of
           thine
        
         
           With
           treach'rous
           kindness
           us'd
           so
           oft
           to
           twine
           .
        
         
           And
           as
           becomes
           a
           poor
           unhappy
           Wife
           ,
        
         
           Repair
           my
           ruin'd
           Honour
           with
           my
           Life
           .
        
         
           When
           we
           can
           once
           with
           our
           hard
           Fate
           comply
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           easie
           then
           to
           chuse
           the
           way
           to
           die
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           on
           my
           Tomb
           shall
           the
           proud
           Cause
           be
           read
           ,
        
         
           And
           thy
           sad
           Crime
           still
           live
           ,
           when
           I
           am
           dead
           !
        
         
           Poor
           Phillis
           dy'd
           ,
           by
           him
           she
           lov'd
           oppress'd
           ,
        
         
           The
           truest
           Mistriss
           ,
           by
           the
           falsest
           Guest
           .
        
         
           He
           was
           the
           cruel
           cause
           of
           all
           her
           woe
           ,
        
         
           But
           her
           own
           hand
           perform'd
           the
           fatal
           Blow
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           HYPERMNESTRA
           TO
           LINUS
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           WRIGHT
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Danaus
             ,
             King
             of
             Argos
             ,
             had
             by
             several
             Wives
             Fifty
             Daughters
             ,
             his
             Brother
             Aegiptus
             as
             many
             Sons
             .
             Danaus
             refusing
             to
             Marry
             his
             D●ughters
             to
             his
             Brothers
             Sons
             ,
             was
             at
             last
             compelled
             by
             an
             Army
             .
             In
             revenge
             ,
             he
             commands
             his
             Daughters
             each
             to
             Murder
             her
             Husband
             on
             the
             Wedding
             Night
             .
             All
             obeyd
             but
             Hypermnestra
             ,
             who
             assisted
             her
             Husband
             Linus
             to
             escape
             ,
             for
             which
             being
             afterwards
             imprisoned
             and
             put
             in
             Irons
             ,
             she
             writes
             this
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           To
           that
           dear
           Brother
           who
           alone
           survives
           lives
           ,
        
         
           Of
           Fifty
           ,
           late
           ,
           whose
           love
           betray'd
           their
        
         
           Writes
           she
           that
           suffers
           in
           her
           Lords
           defence
           ;
        
         
           Unhappy
           Wife
           whose
           Crime
           's
           her
           Innocence
           !
        
         
         
           For
           saving
           him
           I
           lov'd
           ,
           I
           'me
           guilty
           call'd
           :
        
         
           Had
           I
           been
           truly
           so
           ,
           I
           'de
           been
           extoll'd
           .
        
         
           Let
           me
           be
           guilty
           still
           ,
           since
           this
           they
           say
        
         
           Is
           Guilt
           ,
           I
           glory
           thus
           to
           disobey
           .
        
         
           Torments
           nor
           Death
           shall
           draw
           me
           to
           repent
           :
        
         
           Though
           against
           me
           they
           use
           that
           Instrument
        
         
           From
           which
           I
           sav'd
           a
           Husbands
           dearer
           life
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           one
           Sword
           kill
           Linus
           in
           his
           Wife
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           will
           I
           ne're
           repent
           for
           b●ing
           true
           ,
        
         
           Or
           blush
           t'
           have
           lov'd
           :
           that
           let
           my
           Sisters
           do
           :
        
         
           Such
           shame
           ,
           and
           such
           repentance
           is
           their
           due
           .
        
         
           I
           'm
           seiz'd
           with
           terror
           while
           I
           but
           relate
           ,
        
         
           And
           shun
           remembrance
           of
           a
           Crime
           I
           hate
           ▪
        
         
           The
           frightful
           memory
           of
           that
           dire
           night
        
         
           En●rvates
           so
           my
           hand
           I
           scarce
           can
           write
           .
        
         
           How
           er'e
           I
           'le
           try
           .
           With
           Ceremony
           gay
           ,
        
         
           Just
           at
           the
           fall
           of
           Night
           ,
           and
           rise
           of
           Day
           ,
        
         
         
           The
           wicked
           Sisters
           were
           in
           triumph
           led
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           among
           'em
           ,
           to
           the
           Nuptial
           Bed.
        
         
           The
           Marriage
           Lights
           as
           funeral
           Lamps
           appear
           ,
        
         
           And
           threatning
           Omens
           met
           us
           every
           where
           .
        
         
           Hymen
           they
           call
           :
           Hymen
           neglects
           their
           Cryes
           :
        
         
           Nay
           Iuno
           too
           from
           her
           own
           Argos
           flyes
           .
        
         
           Now
           come
           the
           Bridegrooms
           ,
           high
           with
           wine
           ,
           to
           find
        
         
           Something
           with
           us
           more
           lov'd
           than
           Wine
           ,
           behind
           .
        
         
           ●ull
           of
           impatient
           Love
           ,
           careless
           ,
           and
           brave
           ,
        
         
           ●hey
           seize
           the
           Bed
           ,
           not
           seeing
           there
           a
           Grave
           .
        
         
           What
           follow'd
           shame
           forbids
           me
           to
           express
           ;
        
         
           ●ut
           who
           so
           ignorant
           as
           not
           to
           guess
           ?
        
         
           ●ow
           their
           tyr'd
           Senses
           they
           to
           sleep
           commit
           ,
        
         
           ●
           sleep
           as
           still
           as
           Death
           ;
           ah
           ,
           too
           like
           it
           !
        
         
           ●●was
           then
           methought
           I
           heard
           their
           groans
           that
           dyed
           ;
        
         
           ●las
           !
           't
           was
           more
           than
           thought
           !
           I
           terrified
        
         
           ●ay
           trembling
           ,
           cold
           ,
           and
           without
           power
           to
           move
           ,
        
         
           〈◊〉
           that
           dear
           Bed
           which
           you
           had
           made
           me
           love
           .
        
         
         
           While
           you
           in
           the
           soft
           Bonds
           of
           Sleep
           lay
           fast
           ,
        
         
           Charm●d
           with
           the
           joys
           of
           love
           ,
           then
           newly
           past
           :
        
         
           Fearing
           to
           disobey
           ,
           I
           rise
           at
           last
           .
        
         
           Witness
           sweet
           heavens
           ,
           how
           tender
           was
           the
           strife
        
         
           Betwixt
           the
           name
           of
           Daughter
           and
           a
           Wife
           .
        
         
           Thrice
           o're
           your
           breast
           ,
           which
           did
           so
           lately
           joyn
        
         
           In
           such
           an
           Extasie
           of
           love
           to
           mine
           ,
        
         
           I
           rais'd
           the
           pointed
           Steel
           to
           pierce
           that
           part
           ,
        
         
           But
           ah
           !
           th'
           attempt
           strook
           nearer
           my
           own
           heart
           .
        
         
           My
           Soul
           divided
           thus
           ,
           these
           words
           ,
           among
        
         
           A
           thousand
           sighs
           ,
           fell
           softly
           from
           my
           tongue
           .
        
         
           '
           Dost
           thou
           not
           heed
           a
           Fathers
           awful
           will
           ?
        
         
           '
           Dost
           thou
           not
           fear
           his
           power
           ?
           On
           then
           ,
           and
           kill
           ▪
        
         
           '
           How
           can
           I
           kill
           when
           I
           consider
           who
           ?
        
         
           '
           Can
           I
           think
           death
           ?
           against
           a
           Lover
           too
           ?
        
         
           '
           What
           has
           my
           Sex
           with
           Blood
           and
           Arms
           to
           do
           ?
        
         
           '
           Fye
           ,
           thou
           art
           now
           by
           Love
           to
           Shame
           betray'd
           :
        
         
           '
           Thy
           Sister-Brides
           by
           this
           have
           all
           obey'd
           .
        
         
         
           '
           With
           Shame
           their
           Courage
           and
           their
           Duty
           see
           :
        
         
           '
           If
           not
           a
           Daughter
           ,
           yet
           a
           Sister
           be
           .
        
         
           '
           No
           ,
           I
           will
           never
           strike
           :
           If
           one
           must
           dye
        
         
           
             '
             Linus
          
           shall
           live
           ,
           and
           my
           death
           his
           supply
           .
        
         
           '
           What
           has
           he
           done
           ,
           or
           I
           ,
           what
           greater
           ill
           ?
        
         
           '
           For
           him
           to
           dye
           ,
           and
           I
           ,
           much
           worse
           ,
           to
           kill
           ?
        
         
           '
           Were
           he
           as
           guilty
           as
           my
           Father
           wou'd
        
         
           '
           Present
           him
           ,
           why
           must
           I
           be
           stain'd
           with
           bloud
           ?
        
         
           '
           Poinards
           and
           Swords
           ill
           with
           my
           Sex
           agree
           :
        
         
           '
           Soft
           Looks
           ,
           and
           Sighs
           of
           Love
           ,
           our
           weapons
           be
           .
        
         
           As
           I
           lamented
           thus
           ,
           the
           tears
           apace
        
         
           Dropt
           from
           my
           pitying
           eyes
           ,
           on
           thy
           lov'd
           face
           .
        
         
           While
           you
           ,
           with
           kind
           &
           amorous
           Dreams
           possest
           ,
        
         
           Threw
           carelesly
           your
           dear
           arm
           o're
           my
           breast
           ,
        
         
           There
           thinking
           to
           repeat
           Joys
           lately
           known
           ,
        
         
           Your
           hand
           upon
           my
           Sword
           was
           almost
           thrown
           .
        
         
           'T
           was
           time
           to
           call
           ,
           nor
           longer
           I
           forbore
           ,
        
         
           Dreading
           the
           Days
           approach
           ,
           my
           Fathers
           more
           .
        
         
         
           Wake
           Linus
           ,
           wake
           ,
           I
           cry'd
           ;
           O
           quickly
           wake
           ,
        
         
           Or
           sleep
           for
           ever
           here
           ;
           Th'
           alarm
           you
           take
           ,
        
         
           Start
           up
           :
           ask
           twenty
           questions
           in
           one
           breath
           :
        
         
           To
           all
           I
           answer
           thus
           —
           Delay
           is
           death
           ;
        
         
           Fly
           while
           't
           is
           dark
           ,
           and
           scape
           eternal
           night
           .
        
         
           While
           it
           was
           dark
           you
           made
           a
           happy
           flight
           :
        
         
           I
           stay'd
           to
           meet
           the
           terrors
           of
           the
           Light.
        
         
           With
           day
           my
           Father
           comes
           ,
           the
           dead
           to
           view
           ;
        
         
           And
           finds
           the
           dismal
           Sum
           one
           short
           ,
           by
           you
           .
        
         
           Enrag'd
           to
           see
           his
           treachery
           betray'd
           ,
        
         
           By
           his
           command
           I
           'me
           thus
           in
           Fetters
           laid
           .
        
         
           Is
           this
           reward
           due
           to
           my
           Love
           from
           Fate
           ?
        
         
           Ah
           ,
           wretched
           flame
           !
           Passion
           unfortunate
           !
        
         
           Since
           Iö
           suffer'd
           under
           
           Iuno's
           Rage
           ,
        
         
           Nothing
           that
           Rival'd
           Goddess
           can
           asswage
           .
        
         
           Th'
           unhappy
           Mistress
           of
           the
           mighty
           Iove
        
         
           Chang'd
           to
           a
           Cow
           ,
           a
           form
           un●pt
           for
           Love
           ,
        
         
         
           Views
           in
           her
           Fathers
           streams
           her
           heads
           array
           ,
        
         
           Sees
           her
           own
           horns
           ,
           and
           frighted
           ,
           starts
           away
           .
        
         
           When
           she
           wou'd
           speak
           ,
           she
           lows
           :
           and
           equal
           ●ears
        
         
           From
           her
           own
           self
           surprize
           her
           eyes
           and
           ears
           .
        
         
           In
           vain
           to
           loose
           the
           frightful
           shape
           she
           tries
           ,
        
         
           For
           Iö
           follows
           still
           where
           Iö
           flies
           .
        
         
           In
           vain
           she
           wanders
           over
           Lands
           and
           S●as
           ;
        
         
           Can
           she
           find
           Cure
           whose
           self
           is
           the
           Disease
           ?
        
         
           Sadly
           severe
           the
           change
           in
           her
           appear'd
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           Beauty
           Iove
           and
           lov'd
           ,
           and
           Iuno
           fear'd
           .
        
         
           Grass
           and
           the
           Springs
           her
           food
           and
           drink
           supply
           ;
        
         
           Her
           only
           Lodging
           's
           the
           unsheltring
           Sky
           .
        
         
           What
           need
           I
           urge
           Antiquity
           ?
           my
           fate
        
         
           Is
           a
           fresh
           instance
           of
           the
           Goddess
           hate
           ▪
        
         
           A
           double
           stock
           of
           Tears
           by
           me
           are
           spilt
        
         
           Both
           for
           my
           Brothers
           death
           ,
           and
           Sis●ers
           guilt
           .
        
         
           Yet
           ,
           as
           if
           that
           were
           small
           ,
           these
           Chains
           arrive
           ,
        
         
           'Cause
           I
           ,
           alone
           ,
           am
           guiltless
           ,
           you
           alive
           .
        
         
         
           But
           ,
           my
           dear
           Lord
           ,
           if
           any
           thought
           you
           have
        
         
           Or
           of
           the
           Love
           ,
           or
           of
           the
           life
           I
           gave
           :
        
         
           If
           any
           memory
           with
           you
           does
           last
           .
        
         
           Or
           of
           the
           Pleasures
           ,
           or
           the
           Dangers
           past
           ,
        
         
           Now
           ,
           Linus
           ,
           now
           some
           help
           to
           her
           afford
        
         
           Who
           wants
           the
           Liberty
           she
           gave
           her
           Lord.
        
         
           If
           life
           forsake
           me
           e're
           I
           you
           can
           see
           ,
        
         
           And
           death
           ,
           before
           my
           Linus
           ,
           set
           me
           free
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           my
           unhappy
           Earth
           from
           hence
           remove
           ;
        
         
           And
           give
           those
           Obsequies
           are
           due
           to
           Love.
        
         
           When
           I
           'me
           inter'd
           I
           know
           some
           tears
           will
           fall
           :
        
         
           Then
           let
           this
           little
           Epitaph
           be
           all
           .
        
         
           Here
           lies
           a
           Love
           Compleat
           ,
           tho
           hapless
           wife
           ,
        
         
           Who
           catch't
           the
           Death
           aim'd
           at
           her
           husbands
           life
           .
        
         
           Here
           I
           must
           rest
           my
           hand
           ,
           tho
           much
           remains
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           quite
           disabled
           with
           the
           weight
           of
           Chains
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           ARIADNE
           TO
           THESEUS
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Minos
             ,
             King
             of
             Creet
             ,
             by
             a
             sharp
             Warr
             ,
             compell'd
             the
             Athenians
             ,
             (
             who
             had
             treacherously
             slain
             his
             Son
             Androgeos
             ,
             )
             to
             send
             yearly
             seaven
             young
             men
             ,
             and
             as
             many
             Virgins
             to
             be
             devour'd
             by
             the
             Minotaure
             ;
             a
             Monster
             begotten
             by
             a
             Bull
             upon
             his
             wife
             Pasiphae
             ,
             while
             he
             was
             engaged
             in
             that
             Warr.
             The
             Chance
             at
             last
             fell
             up
             on
             Theseus
             to
             be
             sent
             among
             those
             youths
             ;
             who
             ,
             by
             the
             Instructions
             of
             Ariadne
             ,
             escaped
             out
             of
             the
             Labyrinth
             ,
             after
             he
             had
             kill'd
             the
             Minotaure
             ,
             and
             ,
             together
             with
             her
             ,
             fled
             to
             the
             Isle
             of
             Naxos
             .
             But
             ,
             being
             commanded
             by
             Bacchus
             ,
             he
             forsook
             her
             ,
             while
             she
             slept
             .
             When
             she
             awaked
             and
             found
             herself
             deserted
             ,
             she
             writes
             this
             Letter
             .
          
        
         
           THan
           savage
           Beasts
           more
           fierce
           ,
           more
           to
           be
           feard
           ;
        
         
           Expos'd
           by
           Thee
           ,
           by
           Them
           I
           yet
           am
           spar'd
           !
        
         
         
           These
           Lines
           from
           that
           unhappy
           Shore
           I
           write
        
         
           Where
           you
           forsook
           me
           in
           your
           faithless
           flight
           ;
        
         
           And
           the
           most
           tender
           Lover
           did
           betray
           ,
        
         
           While
           lock'd
           in
           sleep
           ,
           and
           in
           your
           Arms
           she
           lay
           .
        
         
           When
           Morning-dew
           on
           all
           the
           Fields
           did
           fall
           ,
        
         
           And
           Birds
           with
           early
           Songs
           for
           day
           did
           call
           ;
        
         
           Then
           I
           ,
           half
           sleeping
           ,
           stretch'd
           me
           tow'rds
           your
           place
           ,
        
         
           And
           sought
           to
           press
           you
           with
           a
           new
           embrace
           :
        
         
           Oft
           sought
           to
           press
           you
           close
           ,
           but
           still
           in
           vain
           ;
        
         
           My
           folding
           Arms
           came
           empty
           back
           again
           .
        
         
           Startled
           ,
           I
           rose
           ,
           and
           found
           that
           you
           were
           gone
           ,
        
         
           Then
           on
           my
           widow'd
           Bed
           fell
           raging
           down
           :
        
         
           Beat
           the
           fond
           Breast
           ,
           where
           ,
           spight
           of
           me
           ,
           you
           dwell
           ,
        
         
           And
           tore
           that
           hair
           ,
           wh●ch
           you
           once
           lik'd
           so
           well
           .
        
         
           ●y
           the
           Moons
           light
           I
           the
           wide
           Shore
           did
           view
           ,
        
         
           〈◊〉
           ●ll
           was
           Desart
           ,
           and
           no
           sight
           of
           you
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           every
           way
           ,
           with
           Loves
           mad
           hast
           I
           fly
           ,
        
         
           But
           ill
           my
           feet
           with
           my
           desires
           comply
           ;
        
         
           Weary
           they
           sink
           in
           the
           deep
           yielding
           Sands
           ,
        
         
           Refusing
           to
           obey
           such
           wild
           Commands
           .
        
         
           To
           all
           the
           shore
           of
           Theseus
           I
           complain
           ,
        
         
           The
           Hills
           and
           Rocks
           send
           back
           that
           Name
           again
           .
        
         
           Oft
           they
           repeat
           aloud
           the
           mournful
           noise
           ,
        
         
           And
           kindly
           aid
           a
           hoarse
           and
           dying
           voice
           .
        
         
           Tho
           faint
           yet
           still
           impatient
           ,
           next
           I
           try
        
         
           To
           climb
           a
           rough
           steep
           Mountain
           which
           was
           nigh
           :
        
         
           (
           My
           furious
           Love
           unusual
           strength
           supply'd
           :
           )
        
         
           From
           thence
           ,
           casting
           my
           eyes
           on
           every
           ●ide
           ,
        
         
           ●ar
           off
           the
           flying
           Vessel
           I
           espy'd
           .
        
         
           ●n
           your
           swell'd
           Sayls
           the
           wanton
           winds
           did
           play
           ;
        
         
           (
           They
           Court
           you
           since
           they
           see
           you
           false
           as
           they
           .
           )
        
         
           ●
           saw
           ,
           or
           fancy'd
           that
           I
           saw
           you
           there
           ,
        
         
           And
           my
           chill
           Veins
           froze
           up
           with
           cold
           despair
           .
        
         
         
           Thus
           did
           I
           languish
           ,
           till
           returning
           Rage
        
         
           In
           new
           extreams
           did
           my
           fir'd
           Soul
           engage
           .
        
         
           Theseus
           ,
           I
           cry
           ,
           perfidious
           Theseus
           stay
           !
        
         
           (
           But
           you
           are
           deaf
           ,
           deaf
           as
           the
           Winds
           ,
           or
           Sea
           !
           )
        
         
           Stay
           your
           false
           flight
           ,
           and
           let
           your
           Vessel
           bear
        
         
           Hence
           the
           whole
           number
           which
           she
           landed
           here
           !
        
         
           In
           loud
           and
           doleful
           shrieks
           I
           tell
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           fresh
           Fury
           wound
           my
           hated
           Breast
           .
        
         
           Then
           all
           my
           shining
           Ornaments
           I
           tear
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           stretch'd
           Arms
           wave
           them
           in
           open
           Air
           ,
        
         
           That
           you
           might
           see
           her
           whom
           you
           could
           not
           hear
           .
        
         
           But
           when
           out
           of
           my
           sight
           the
           Vessel
           flew
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           Horizon
           shut
           me
           from
           the
           view
           ;
        
         
           From
           my
           sad
           eyes
           ,
           what
           floods
           of
           tears
           did
           fall
           !
        
         
           (
           Till
           then
           Rage
           would
           not
           let
           me
           weep
           at
           all
           .
           )
        
         
           Still
           let
           them
           weep
           ,
           for
           ,
           loosing
           sight
           of
           you
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           the
           whole
           business
           which
           they
           ought
           to
           do
           .
        
         
         
           Like
           Bacchus
           raving
           Priests
           sometimes
           I
           go
           :
        
         
           With
           such
           wild
           hast
           ,
           with
           hair
           dishevel'd
           so
           .
        
         
           Then
           on
           some
           craggy
           Rock
           sit
           silent
           down
           ,
        
         
           As
           cold
           ,
           unmov'd
           ,
           and
           sensless
           as
           the
           Stone
           .
        
         
           To
           our
           once
           happy
           Bed
           I
           often
           fly
           :
        
         
           (
           No
           more
           the
           place
           of
           mutual
           Love
           and
           Joy.
           )
        
         
           See
           where
           my
           much
           lov'd
           Theseus
           once
           was
           laid
           ,
        
         
           And
           kiss
           the
           print
           which
           his
           dear
           Body
           made
           .
        
         
           Here
           we
           both
           lay
           ,
           I
           cry
           ,
           false
           Bed
           restore
        
         
           My
           Theseus
           ,
           kind
           and
           faithful
           as
           before
           ,
        
         
           I
           brought
           him
           here
           ,
           here
           lost
           him
           while
           I
           slept
           .
        
         
           How
           well
           ,
           false
           Bed
           ,
           you
           have
           my
           Lover
           k●pt
           !
        
         
           Alone
           and
           helpless
           in
           this
           Desert
           place
        
         
           The
           steps
           of
           Man
           ,
           or
           Beast
           I
           cannot
           trace
           .
        
         
           On
           every
           side
           the
           foaming
           Billows
           beat
           ,
        
         
           But
           no
           kind
           Ship
           does
           offer
           a
           retreat
           .
        
         
           And
           should
           the
           Gods
           send
           me
           some
           lucky
           Sail
           ,
        
         
           ●alm
           S●as
           ,
           good
           Pilots
           ,
           and
           a
           prosperous
           Gale
           ▪
        
         
         
           Yet
           then
           my
           Native
           Soil
           I
           durst
           not
           see
           ,
        
         
           But
           a
           sad
           Exile
           must
           for
           ever
           be
           .
        
         
           From
           all
           ●rete
           hundred
           Cities
           I
           am
           curst
           :
        
         
           From
           that
           fam'd
           Isle
           where
           Infant
           Iove
           was
           nurst
           .
        
         
           Crete
           I
           betray'd
           for
           you
           ,
           and
           ,
           what
           's
           more
           dear
           ,
        
         
           Betray'd
           my
           Father
           ,
           who
           that
           Crown
           does
           wear
           :
        
         
           When
           to
           your
           hands
           the
           fatal
           Clew
           I
           gave
           ,
        
         
           Which
           through
           the
           winding
           Lab'rinth
           led
           you
           safe
           .
        
         
           Then
           how
           you
           lov'd
           ,
           how
           eagerly
           embrac'd
           ,
        
         
           How
           o●t
           you
           swore
           ,
           by
           all
           your
           dangers
           past
           ,
        
         
           That
           with
           my
           life
           your
           love
           should
           ever
           last
           !
        
         
           Ah
           ,
           perjur'd
           Theseus
           ,
           I
           thy
           love
           survive
           ,
        
         
           If
           one
           forsaken
           and
           expos'd
           does
           live
           .
        
         
           Had
           you
           slain
           me
           ,
           as
           you
           my
           Brother
           slew
           ,
        
         
           You'ad
           then
           absolv'd
           your self
           from
           ev'ry
           Vow
           .
        
         
           Now
           both
           my
           present
           Grief
           denies
           me
           Rest
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           ,
           that
           a
           wild
           Fancy
           can
           suggest
        
         
           〈◊〉
           ●●ead●ul
           Ills
           to
           come
           ,
           distracts
           my
           Br●ast
           .
        
         
         
           Before
           my
           eyes
           a
           thousand
           deaths
           appear
           ,
        
         
           I
           live
           ,
           yet
           suffer
           all
           the
           deaths
           I
           fear
           .
        
         
           Sometimes
           I
           think
           that
           Lyons
           there
           do
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           scarce
           dare
           trust
           my
           sight
           that
           't
           is
           not
           so
           .
        
         
           ●magine
           that
           fierce
           Wolves
           are
           howling
           there
           ,
        
         
           And
           at
           th'
           imagin'd
           Noise
           shrink
           up
           with
           fear
           .
        
         
           ●hen
           think
           what
           Monsters
           from
           the
           Sea
           may
           rise
           ,
        
         
           Or
           fancy
           bloudy
           Swords
           before
           my
           eyes
           .
        
         
           But
           most
           I
           dread
           to
           be
           a
           Captive
           made
           ,
        
         
           ●nd
           see
           these
           hands
           in
           servile
           works
           imploy'd
           .
        
         
           Unworthy
           my
           Extraction
           from
           a
           Line
        
         
           On
           one
           side
           Royal
           ,
           and
           on
           both
           Divine
           :
        
         
           ●nd
           ,
           (
           which
           my
           Indignation
           more
           would
           move
           ,
           )
        
         
           ●nworthy
           her
           whom
           Theseus
           once
           did
           love
           .
        
         
           If
           tow'rds
           the
           Sea
           I
           look
           ,
           or
           tow'rds
           the
           Land
           ,
        
         
           ●bjects
           of
           horror
           still
           before
           me
           stand
           .
        
         
           or
           dare
           I
           look
           tow'rds
           Heaven
           ,
           or
           hope
           to
           find
        
         
           ●●d
           from
           those
           Gods
           who
           chang'd
           my
           
           Theseus's
           mind
           .
        
         
         
           If
           Beasts
           alone
           within
           this
           Island
           stay
           ,
        
         
           Behold
           me
           left
           to
           them
           a
           helpless
           Prey
           !
        
         
           If
           Men
           dwell
           here
           ,
           they
           must
           be
           Savage
           too
           ,
        
         
           This
           Soyl
           ,
           this
           Heaven
           made
           gentle
           Theseus
           so
           .
        
         
           Would
           Athens
           never
           had
           my
           Brother
           slain
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           for
           his
           paid
           so
           many
           lives
           again
           .
        
         
           Would
           thy
           strong
           Arm
           had
           never
           given
           the
           wound
           ,
        
         
           Which
           struck
           the
           doubtful
           Monster
           to
           the
           ground
           ▪
        
         
           Nor
           I
           had
           given
           the
           guiding
           Thred
           to
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           Which
           ,
           to
           my
           own
           destruction
           ,
           set
           Thee
           free
           .
        
         
           Let
           the
           unknowing
           World
           thy
           Conquest
           praise
           ,
        
         
           It
           does
           not
           Ariad●es
           wonder
           raise
           :
        
         
           So
           hard
           a
           Heart
           ,
           unarm'd
           ,
           might
           safely
           scorn
        
         
           The
           strength
           and
           sharpness
           of
           the
           Monsters
           horn
        
         
           〈◊〉
           Flint
           or
           Steel
           could
           be
           secure
           of
           wound
           ,
        
         
           No
           room
           for
           fear
           could
           in
           that
           Breast
           be
           found
           .
        
         
           C●rst
           be
           the
           sleep
           which
           seal'd
           these
           eyes
           so
           fast
        
         
           〈◊〉
           ,
           that
           begun
           ,
           it
           did
           not
           ever
           last
           !
        
         
         
           For
           ever
           curst
           be
           that
           officious
           Wind
           ,
        
         
           Which
           fill'd
           thy
           Sayls
           ,
           and
           in
           my
           ruin
           joyn'd
           !
        
         
           Curst
           hand
           which
           me
           ,
           and
           which
           my
           Brother
           kill'd
           !
        
         
           (
           With
           what
           Misfortunes
           our
           sad
           House
           't
           has
           fill'd
           !
           )
        
         
           And
           curst
           the
           Tongue
           ,
           which
           ,
           with
           soft
           words
           ,
           betray'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           empty
           Vows
           ,
           a
           poor
           believing
           Maid
           !
        
         
           Sleep
           ,
           and
           the
           Winds
           against
           me
           had
           combin'd
        
         
           In
           vain
           ,
           if
           perjur'd
           Theseus
           had
           not
           joyn'd
           .
        
         
           Poor
           Ariadne
           ,
           thou
           must
           perish
           here
           ,
        
         
           Breath
           out
           thy
           Soul
           in
           strange
           and
           hated
           Air
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           see
           thy
           pittying
           Mother
           shed
           one
           Tear
           :
        
         
           Want
           a
           kind
           hand
           which
           thy
           fix'd
           eyes
           may
           close
           ,
        
         
           And
           thy
           stiff
           Limbs
           may
           decently
           compose
           .
        
         
           Thy
           Carcass
           to
           the
           Birds
           must
           be
           a
           Prey
           .
        
         
           Thus
           Theseus
           all
           thy
           Kindness
           does
           repay
           !
        
         
         
           Mean
           while
           to
           Athens
           your
           swift
           Ship
           does
           run
           ;
        
         
           There
           tell
           the
           wondring
           Crowd
           what
           you
           have
           done
           .
        
         
           How
           the
           mix'd
           Prodigy
           you
           did
           subdue
           ,
        
         
           The
           Beast
           and
           Man
           how
           with
           one
           stroke
           you
           slew
           .
        
         
           Describe
           the
           Labyrinth
           ,
           and
           how
           ,
           taught
           by
           me
           ,
        
         
           You
           scap'd
           from
           all
           those
           perplext
           Mazes
           free
           .
        
         
           Tell
           ,
           in
           return
           ,
           what
           generous
           things
           you
           've
           done
           :
        
         
           Such
           Gratitude
           will
           all
           your
           Triumphs
           Crown
           !
        
         
           Sprung
           sure
           from
           Rocks
           ,
           and
           not
           of
           human
           Race
           !
        
         
           Thy
           Cruelty
           does
           thy
           great
           Line
           disgrace
           .
        
         
           Yet
           couldst
           thou
           see
           ,
           as
           barbarous
           as
           thou
           art
           ,
        
         
           These
           dismal
           looks
           ,
           sure
           they
           would
           touch
           thy
           heart
           .
        
         
           You
           cannot
           see
           ,
           yet
           think
           you
           saw
           me
           now
        
         
           Fix'd
           to
           some
           Rock
           ,
           as
           if
           I
           there
           did
           grow
           ,
        
         
           And
           trembling
           at
           the
           Waves
           which
           roul
           below
           .
        
         
           Look
           on
           my
           torn
           ,
           and
           my
           disordred
           hairs
           ,
        
         
           Look
           on
           my
           Rob●
           wet
           through
           with
           show'rs
           of
           tears
           .
        
         
         
           With
           the
           cold
           blasts
           see
           my
           wole
           body
           shakes
           ,
        
         
           And
           my
           numm'd
           hand
           unequal
           Letters
           makes
           .
        
         
           I
           do
           not
           urge
           my
           hated
           Merit
           now
           ,
        
         
           But
           yield
           ,
           this
           once
           ,
           that
           you
           do
           nothing
           ow.
        
         
           I
           neither
           sav'd
           your
           Life
           ,
           nor
           set
           you
           free
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           therefore
           must
           you
           force
           this
           death
           on
           Me
           ?
        
         
           Ah!
           see
           this
           wounded
           Breast
           worn
           out
           with
           sighs
           ,
        
         
           And
           these
           faint
           Arms
           stretch'd
           to
           the
           seas
           &
           ski●s
           .
        
         
           See
           these
           few
           hairs
           yet
           spar'd
           by
           Grief
           and
           Rage
           ,
        
         
           Some
           Pitty
           let
           these
           flowing
           Tears
           engage
           .
        
         
           Turn
           back
           ,
           and
           ,
           if
           I
           'me
           dead
           when
           you
           return
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           lay
           my
           Ashes
           in
           their
           peaceful
           Urn.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           HERMIONE
           TO
           ORESTES
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Hermione
             ,
             the
             Daughter
             of
             Menelaus
             and
             Helena
             ,
             was
             by
             Tyndarus
             her
             Grandfather
             (
             to
             whom
             Menelaus
             had
             committed
             the
             government
             of
             his
             House
             when
             he
             went
             to
             Troy
             )
             contracted
             to
             Orestes
             .
             Her
             Father
             Menelaus
             ,
             not
             knowing
             thereof
             ,
             had
             betroth'd
             her
             to
             
               Pyrrhus
               ▪
            
             the
             Son
             of
             Achilles
             ,
             who
             returning
             from
             the
             Trojan
             Wars
             ,
             stole
             her
             away
             .
             Whereupon
             she
             writes
             to
             Orestes
             as
             follows
             .
          
        
         
           THis
           ,
           dear
           Orestes
           ,
           this
           with
           health
           to
           you
           ,
        
         
           From
           her
           that
           was
           your
           Wife
           &
           Cosin
           too
           ;
        
         
           Your
           Cosin
           still
           ,
           but
           oh
           !
           that
           dearer
           Name
        
         
           Of
           Wife
           another
           now
           does
           falsly
           claim
           .
        
         
         
           What
           Woman
           can
           ,
           I
           have
           already
           done
           ,
        
         
           yet
           I
           'm
           confin'd
           by
           rough
           
           Achilles's
           Son.
        
         
           With
           much
           of
           Pain
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           Art
           I
           knew
           ,
        
         
           I
           strove
           to
           shun
           him
           ,
           yet
           all
           wou'd
           not
           do
           .
        
         
           Stand
           off
           said
           I
           ,
           foul
           Ravisher
           ,
           take
           heed
           ,
        
         
           My
           injur'd
           Husband
           will
           revenge
           this
           deed
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           he
           more
           deaf
           then
           angry
           Tempests
           are
           ,
        
         
           To
           his
           loath'd
           Chamber
           drag'd
           me
           by
           the
           hair
           .
        
         
           Had
           Troy
           still
           stood
           ,
           had
           every
           Grecian
           Dame
        
         
           Become
           a
           Prey
           to
           th'
           haughty
           Victors
           flame
           ,
        
         
           What
           cou'd
           I
           more
           have
           suffer'd
           then
           I
           do
           ?
        
         
           Far
           more
           then
           poor
           Andromache
           e're
           knew
           .
        
         
           But
           oh
           my
           Dear
           !
           if
           ,
           as
           I
           have
           for
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           hast
           a
           tender
           care
           ,
           or
           thought
           for
           me
           ,
        
         
           Come
           bravely
           on
           ,
           and
           as
           rob'd
           Tygers
           bold
           .
        
         
           Snatch
           me
           half
           murder'd
           from
           this
           Monsters
           hold
        
         
           Can
           you
           pursue
           each
           petty
           Rober's
           life
           ,
        
         
           And
           yet
           thus
           tamely
           loose
           a
           Ravish't
           wife
           ?
        
         
         
           Think
           how
           my
           Father
           Menelaus
           rag'd
        
         
           For
           his
           lost
           Q●een
           ,
           think
           what
           a
           War
           he
           wag'd
           ,
        
         
           When
           pow'rful
           Greece
           was
           in
           his
           Cause
           engag'd
           .
        
         
           Had
           he
           sat
           quietly
           ,
           and
           nothing
           try'd
           ,
        
         
           As
           once
           she
           was
           ,
           she
           'd
           still
           been
           Paris
           Bride
           .
        
         
           Prepare
           no
           Fleet
           ,
           you
           will
           no
           Forces
           need
           ,
        
         
           By
           you
           ,
           and
           only
           you
           ,
           I
           wou'd
           be
           free'd
           .
        
         
           Not
           but
           wrong'd
           Marriage
           is
           a
           Cause
           alone
        
         
           Sufficient
           for
           th'
           ingaging
           World
           to
           own
           .
        
         
           Sprung
           from
           the
           Royal
           Pelopean
           line
           ,
        
         
           You
           are
           no
           less
           by
           Blood
           then
           Marriage
           mine
           .
        
         
           These
           double
           Ties
           a
           double
           Love
           perswade
           ,
        
         
           And
           each
           sufficient
           to
           deserve
           your
           Aid
           .
        
         
           I
           to
           your
           Arms
           was
           by
           my
           Guardian
           given
           ,
        
         
           The
           only
           Bliss
           I
           wou'd
           have
           beg'd
           from
           Heaven
           .
        
         
           But
           that
           unknown
           (
           O
           my
           unhappy
           Fate
           !
           )
        
         
           My
           Father
           gave
           me
           to
           the
           Man
           I
           hate
           .
        
         
         
           Just
           were
           those
           Infant
           Vows
           to
           you
           I
           made
           ,
        
         
           But
           this
           last
           Act
           had
           all
           those
           Vows
           betray'd
           .
        
         
           Too
           well
           he
           knows
           what
           't
           is
           to
           be
           in
           Love
           ,
        
         
           How
           can
           he
           then
           my
           Passion
           disapprove
           ?
        
         
           Since
           Love
           himself
           has
           felt
           ,
           he
           will
           ,
           nay
           must
        
         
           Allow
           this
           Passion
           in
           his
           Daughter
           just
           .
        
         
           My
           Fate
           resembles
           my
           wrong'd
           Father's
           Case
           ,
        
         
           And
           Pyrrhus
           is
           that
           Thief
           that
           Paris
           was
           .
        
         
           Let
           my
           proud
           Goaler
           the
           brave
           deeds
           run
           o're
           ,
        
         
           Count
           all
           the
           Laurels
           his
           great
           Parents
           wore
           ,
        
         
           Whate're
           his
           cou'd
           ,
           yours
           greater
           did
           ,
           &
           more
           .
        
         
           Let
           him
           claim
           Kindred
           with
           some
           God
           above
           ,
        
         
           You
           are
           descended
           from
           the
           Mighty
           Iove
           .
        
         
           Brave
           as
           you
           are
           ,
           I
           wish
           't
           were
           understood
        
         
           By
           something
           else
           ,
           then
           by
           Aegysthus
           Blood
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           you
           are
           innocent
           ,
           Fate
           drew
           the
           Sword
           ,
        
         
           And
           a
           religious
           Duty
           gave
           the
           word
           .
        
         
         
           With
           this
           the
           Tyrant
           does
           my
           Lord
           disgrace
           ,
        
         
           And
           what
           's
           still
           worse
           ,
           dares
           do
           it
           to
           my
           Face
           :
        
         
           Whilst
           burst
           with
           Envy
           ,
           I
           am
           forc'd
           to
           be
        
         
           Rack't
           ,
           and
           tormented
           with
           his
           Blasphemy
           .
        
         
           Shall
           my
           Orestes
           be
           abus'd
           ,
           and
           I
        
         
           As
           one
           that
           's
           unconcer'nd
           sit
           careless
           by
           ?
        
         
           No
           ,
           though
           disabled
           ,
           and
           of
           Arms
           bereft
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           as
           a
           Woman
           ,
           I
           have
           one
           way
           left
           ,
        
         
           Tears
           I
           can
           shed
           ,
           such
           as
           will
           yield
           relief
        
         
           To
           my
           sick
           Mind
           ,
           choakt
           with
           excess
           of
           grief
           ;
        
         
           For
           when
           the
           big-charg'd
           Storm
           hath
           lost
           its
           power
           ,
        
         
           It
           sighs
           it self
           into
           a
           silent
           showre
           .
        
         
           This
           I
           can
           do
           ,
           whilst
           by
           each
           other
           prest
        
         
           The
           dewy
           Pearls
           run
           ●rickling
           o're
           my
           breast
           .
        
         
           But
           how
           shou'd
           I
           this
           fatal
           woe
           escape
           ?
        
         
           All
           our
           whole
           Race
           was
           subject
           to
           a
           Rape
           :
        
         
           I
           need
           not
           tell
           ,
           how
           in
           soft
           Feathers
           drest
           ,
        
         
           The
           wanton
           God
           his
           softer
           Nymph
           possest
           ;
        
         
         
           How
           through
           the
           deep
           in
           unknown
           ships
           convey'd
        
         
           Hippodame
           was
           from
           her
           Friends
           betray'd
           ;
        
         
           How
           the
           fair
           Tyndaris
           by
           force
           detain'd
           ,
        
         
           By
           th'
           Amyclaean
           brethren
           was
           regain'd
           .
        
         
           How
           afterwards
           by
           all
           the
           Grecian
           Power
        
         
           She
           was
           brought
           back
           from
           the
           Idaean
           shore
           .
        
         
           I
           scarce
           remember
           that
           sad
           day
           ,
           and
           yet
           ,
        
         
           Young
           as
           I
           was
           ,
           I
           do
           remember
           it
           .
        
         
           Her
           Brothers
           wept
           ,
           her
           Sister
           to
           remove
        
         
           Her
           Fears
           ,
           call'd
           on
           the
           Gods
           ,
           and
           her
           own
           Iove
           .
        
         
           Mother
           ,
           said
           I
           ,
           in
           a
           weak
           mournful
           Tone
           ,
        
         
           Will
           you
           be
           gone
           ,
           and
           leave
           me
           here
           alone
           ?
        
         
           When
           you
           are
           gone
           ,
           why
           shou'd
           I
           stay
           behind
           ?
        
         
           All
           this
           I
           spoke
           ,
           but
           spoke
           it
           to
           the
           wind
           .
        
         
           Now
           like
           the
           rest
           of
           my
           curst
           Pedigree
           ,
        
         
           By
           this
           loath'd
           Wretch
           I
           am
           detain'd
           from
           Thee
           .
        
         
           The
           brave
           Achilles
           wou'd
           have
           blam'd
           his
           Son
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           ,
           had
           he
           liv'd
           ,
           wou'd
           this
           have
           e're
           been
           done
           .
        
         
         
           He
           ne're
           had
           thought
           it
           lawful
           to
           divide
        
         
           Those
           two
           ,
           whom
           Marriage
           had
           so
           firmly
           ty'd
           .
        
         
           What
           is
           't
           ,
           ye
           Gods
           ,
           that
           thus
           provokes
           your
           hate
           ,
        
         
           Or
           what
           curs'd
           Star
           rules
           my
           unhappy
           Fate
           ?
        
         
           Why
           am
           I
           plagu'd
           by
           your
           injurious
           power
           ,
        
         
           Rob'd
           of
           my
           Parents
           in
           a
           tender
           hour
           ?
        
         
           He
           to
           the
           war
           ,
           she
           with
           her
           Lover
           ●led
           ,
        
         
           Though
           living
           both
           ,
           yet
           both
           to
           me
           were
           dead
           .
        
         
           No
           babling
           words
           half
           fram'd
           upon
           thy
           tongue
        
         
           Lull'd
           me
           to
           soft
           repose
           when
           I
           was
           young
           .
        
         
           Your
           tender
           neck
           was
           ne're
           embrac't
           by
           me
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           sat
           I
           ever
           smiling
           on
           your
           knee
           ,
        
         
           You
           never
           tended
           me
           ,
           nor
           was
           I
           led
        
         
           By
           thee
           (
           dear
           Mother
           )
           to
           my
           Marriage-bed
           ▪
        
         
           At
           your
           return
           ,
           I
           saw
           ,
           but
           knew
           you
           not
           ,
        
         
           So
           sure
           my
           Mothers
           Face
           I
           had
           forgot
           .
        
         
           I
           gaz'd
           ,
           and
           gaz'd
           ,
           but
           knew
           no
           Feature
           there
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           though●
           't
           was
           you
           ,
           'cause
           so
           Divinely
           fair
           .
        
         
         
           Such
           was
           our
           Ignorance
           ,
           even
           you
           alas
           !
        
         
           Ask'd
           your
           own
           Daughter
           ,
           where
           your
           Daughter
           was
        
         
           Thou
           ,
           my
           Orestes
           ,
           wert
           my
           sole
           delight
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           thee
           too
           I
           must
           loose
           ,
           unless
           you
           fight
           .
        
         
           Pyrrhus
           withholds
           me
           from
           thy
           Arms
           ,
           that
           's
           all
        
         
           Hermione
           has
           gain'd
           by
           Iliums
           fall
           .
        
         
           Soon
           as
           the
           early
           Harbinger
           of
           day
        
         
           Guilds
           the
           glad
           Orb
           with
           his
           Resplendent
           Ray
           ;
        
         
           My
           Grief
           's
           made
           gentler
           by
           th'
           approaching
           light
           ,
        
         
           And
           some
           pain
           seems
           to
           vanish
           with
           the
           night
           ;
        
         
           But
           when
           a
           Darkness
           o're
           the
           Earth
           is
           spread
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           return
           all
           pensive
           to
           my
           Bed
           ,
        
         
           Tears
           from
           my
           Eyes
           ,
           as
           streams
           from
           Fountains
           flow
           ,
        
         
           I
           shun
           this
           Husband
           ,
           as
           I
           'd
           shun
           a
           Foe
           .
        
         
           Oft
           grown
           unmindful
           through
           distractive
           Cares
           ,
        
         
           I
           've
           str●tcht
           my
           Arms
           ,
           and
           toucht
           him
           unawares
           ;
        
         
         
           Strait
           then
           I
           check
           the
           wandring
           Sense
           ,
           and
           sly
        
         
           To
           the
           Bed's
           utmost
           limits
           ,
           yet
           I
           lye
        
         
           Restless
           ev'n
           there
           ,
           and
           think
           I
           'm
           still
           too
           nigh
           .
        
         
           Oft
           I
           for
           Pyrrhus
           have
           Orestes
           said
           ,
        
         
           But
           blest
           the
           Error
           which
           my
           Tongue
           had
           made
           .
        
         
           Now
           by
           that
           Royal
           God
           whose
           Frown
           can
           make
        
         
           The
           Vassal
           Globe
           of
           his
           Creation
           shake
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           Almighty
           Sire
           of
           our
           unhappy
           Race
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           the
           Scared
           Urn
           that
           does
           embrace
        
         
           Thy
           Father's
           dust
           ,
           whose
           once
           loud
           blood
           may
           boast
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           in
           repose
           hast
           laid
           his
           sleeping
           Ghost
           ;
        
         
           I
           'le
           either
           live
           my
           dear
           
           Orestes's
           Wife
           ,
        
         
           Or
           to
           untimely
           Fate
           resign
           my
           Life
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           LEANDER
           TO
           HERO
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           TATE
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             ●eander
             accustomed
             nightly
             to
             swim
             over
             the
             Hellespont
             to
             visit
             Hero
             (
             Priestess
             of
             Venus
             Temple
             )
             being
             at
             last
             hinder'd
             by
             Storms
             from
             his
             wonted
             course
             ,
             sends
             her
             the
             following
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           REceive
           this
           Letter
           from
           Leander
           ,
           fraught
        
         
           With
           Service
           ,
           which
           he
           rather
           would
           have
           brought
           .
        
         
           Read
           with
           a
           smile
           ,
           —
           and
           yet
           ,
           if
           thou
           wouldst
           crown
        
         
           My
           wiser
           wishes
           ,
           read
           them
           with
           a
           frown
           .
        
         
         
           That
           Anger
           from
           thy
           Kindness
           will
           proceed
           ,
        
         
           'Cause
           of
           Leander
           thou
           canst
           only
           read
           .
        
         
           The
           Seas
           rage
           high
           ,
           and
           scarce
           could
           we
           prevail
        
         
           With
           the
           most
           daring
           Mariner
           to
           fail
           .
        
         
           Embarqu'd
           at
           last
           ,
           and
           sculking
           in
           the
           Hold
           ,
        
         
           My
           stealth
           is
           to
           my
           jealous
           Parents
           told
           ,
        
         
           As
           much
           too
           tim'rous
           they
           ,
           as
           I
           too
           bold
           ,
        
         
           I
           writ
           ,
           since
           writing
           was
           my
           sole
           relief
           ,
        
         
           And
           or'e
           the
           dewy
           sheets
           thus
           breath'd
           my
           grief
           .
        
         
           Blest
           Letter
           ,
           go
           ,
           my
           tenderest
           thoughts
           convey
        
         
           To
           her
           warm
           Lip
           thy
           Signets
           she
           will
           lay
           ;
        
         
           And
           with
           a
           Kiss
           dissolve
           thy
           Seals
           away
           .
        
         
           Sev'n
           tedious
           nights
           guiltless
           of
           sleep
           I
           've
           stood
           ,
        
         
           Sigh'd
           with
           the
           winds
           ,
           and
           murmur'd
           with
           the
           flood
           ;
        
         
           Then
           climbing
           th'
           outmost
           Clifts
           her
           Coast
           to
           view
           ,
        
         
           My
           Tears
           ,
           like
           Glasses
           ,
           th'
           Object
           nearer
           drew
           :
        
         
         
           By
           th'
           adverse
           winds
           and
           waves
           detain'd
           on
           shore
           ,
        
         
           My
           thoughts
           run
           all
           our
           former
           Pleasures
           ore
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           soft
           Scenes
           of
           Fancy
           re-enjoy
        
         
           The
           bliss
           that
           did
           our
           Infant
           Loves
           imploy
           .
        
         
           'T
           was
           night
           (
           a
           Curse
           on
           the
           Impert'nent
           light
        
         
           That
           pry'd
           &
           marr'd
           the
           Pleasures
           of
           that
           night
           )
        
         
           When
           first
           I
           swam
           the
           Ford
           ;
           while
           
           Cynthia's
           beams
        
         
           look'd
           pale
           ,
           and
           trembled
           for
           me
           in
           the
           streams
           .
        
         
           My
           drooping
           Arms
           ,
           in
           hopes
           they
           shall
           at
           length
        
         
           Embrace
           thy
           neck
           ,
           feel
           fresh
           supplies
           of
           strength
           .
        
         
           The
           wondring
           Waves
           to
           their
           new
           Fury
           yield
           ,
        
         
           Not
           
           Tryton's
           faster
           plow
           the
           liquid
           Field
           .
        
         
           Soon
           on
           the
           Temples
           Spire
           your
           Torch
           I
           spy'd
           ,
           Fixt
           like
           a
           Star
           my
           watry
           Course
           to
           guide
           ;
        
         
           Which
           Planet-like
           ,
           shoots
           vigour
           through
           my
           veins
           ;
        
         
           The
           warmth
           of
           my
           Immortal
           Love
           sustains
        
         
           ●n
           the
           cold
           Flood
           ,
           Lifes
           perishing
           remains
           .
        
         
         
           But
           now
           the
           gentlest
           Star
           that
           blest
           my
           way
           ,
        
         
           Your
           bright
           self
           on
           the
           Turret
           I
           survey
           .
        
         
           Then
           with
           redoubled
           strokes
           the
           Waves
           divide
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           my
           Hero
           am
           at
           last
           descry'd
           :
        
         
           Scarce
           could
           your
           careful
           Confident
           restrain
           ,
        
         
           But
           you
           would
           plunge
           ,
           and
           meet
           me
           in
           the
           Main●
        
         
           And
           made
           so
           far
           your
           kind
           Endeavours
           good
           ,
        
         
           That
           Ankle
           deep
           on
           the
           Fords
           brink
           you
           stood
           ;
        
         
           And
           seem'd
           the
           new
           ris'n
           Venus
           of
           the
           Flood
           .
        
         
           The
           shore
           now
           gain'd
           ,
           to
           your
           dear
           Arms
           I
           flew
           ,
        
         
           All
           dropping
           as
           I
           was
           with
           briny
           Dew
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           prov'd
           for
           that
           a
           more
           unwelcome
           Guest
           ;
        
         
           Your
           warm
           lip
           to
           my
           bloodless
           cheek
           you
           prest
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           felt
           my
           Locks
           distilling
           on
           your
           Breast
           .
        
         
           Your
           hasty
           Robes
           are
           o're
           my
           shoulders
           thrown
           ,
        
         
           To
           shroud
           my
           shivering
           Limbs
           you
           stript
           your
           own●
        
         
           Forgetting
           how
           your
           too
           officious
           Care
           ,
        
         
           Left
           Thee
           (
           my
           tend'rest
           part
           )
           expos'd
           to
           Air.
        
         
         
           The
           night
           ,
           and
           we
           are
           conscious
           to
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           Delights
           that
           ought
           not
           ,
           cannot
           be
           exprest
           .
        
         
           We
           knew
           short
           space
           was
           to
           our
           pleasures
           set
           ,
        
         
           And
           therefore
           lov'd
           not
           at
           the
           common
           rate
           .
        
         
           But
           th'
           utmost
           Fury
           of
           your
           Flames
           imploy'd
           ,
        
         
           The
           Minutes
           flew
           less
           fast
           then
           we
           enjoy'd
           .
        
         
           With
           such
           dispatch
           that
           nights
           dear
           joys
           we
           wrought
           ,
        
         
           To
           recollect
           would
           make
           an
           Age
           of
           thought
           .
        
         
           At
           length
           the
           sickning
           Stars
           began
           t'
           expire
           ,
        
         
           And
           ●
           with
           them
           am
           summon'd
           to
           retire
           .
        
         
           Con●us'dly
           then
           we
           our
           Love-task
           dispatcht
           ,
        
         
           ●en
           thousand
           kisses
           in
           a
           Minute
           snatcht
           .
        
         
           ●our
           Women
           chid
           that
           I
           so
           long
           delay'd
        
         
           ●ou
           prest
           me
           close
           ,
           then
           askt
           me
           why
           I
           staid
           .
        
         
           ●y
           stay
           you
           first
           reprov'd
           ,
           and
           then
           my
           hast
           ,
        
         
           ●or
           cry'd
           Farewel
           ;
           till
           you
           had
           claspt
           me
           fast
           .
        
         
         
           Day
           broke
           e're
           we
           our
           Am'rous
           strife
           could
           end
           ,
        
         
           Then
           fighing
           I
           to
           the
           cold
           Beach
           descend
           .
        
         
           Trust
           me
           ,
           the
           Sea
           from
           your
           dear
           Coasts
           seem
           steep
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           way
           methinks
           I
           climb
           the
           deep
           .
        
         
           But
           when
           revisiting
           your
           shores
           ,
           I
           seem
        
         
           Descending
           still
           ,
           and
           rather
           fall
           then
           swim
           .
        
         
           I
           loath
           my
           Native
           Soil
           ,
           and
           only
           prize
        
         
           That
           Region
           where
           my
           Loves
           dear
           Treasure
           lies
           .
        
         
           Why
           is
           not
           Sestos
           to
           Abydus
           joyn'd
           ?
        
         
           Since
           we
           united
           are
           in
           heart
           and
           mind
           .
        
         
           The
           same
           our
           hopes
           ,
           our
           fears
           ,
           and
           our
           desires
           ,
        
         
           Love
           is
           our
           Life
           ,
           and
           one
           Love
           both
           inspires
           .
        
         
           But
           ah
           !
           what
           Mis'ries
           on
           that
           Love
           attend
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           Joys
           on
           humerous
           Seas
           and
           Winds
           depend●
        
         
           I
           by
           their
           quarrel
           loose
           ,
           forc't
           to
           delay
        
         
           My
           tender
           Visit
           ,
           till
           they
           end
           the
           Fray.
        
         
           When
           first
           I
           crost
           the
           Gulph
           ,
           the
           Dolphins
           gaz'd●
        
         
           The
           Sea-Nymphs
           fled
           ,
           the
           Trytons
           were
           amaz'd
        
         
         
           But
           now
           no
           more
           I
           seem
           a
           Prodigy
           ,
        
         
           But
           pass
           for
           an
           Inhabitant
           o'
           th'
           Sea.
        
         
           And
           since
           my
           passage
           is
           by
           Storms
           withstood
           ,
        
         
           I
           'm
           nightly
           mist
           by
           th'
           Brothers
           of
           the
           Flood
           .
        
         
           Oft
           have
           I
           curst
           the
           tedious
           way
           ,
           but
           oh
           !
        
         
           I
           wish
           in
           vain
           that
           tedious
           passage
           now
           .
        
         
           Yield
           me
           again
           ,
           kind
           Floods
           ,
           my
           tiresome
           way
           ,
        
         
           'T
           was
           never
           half
           so
           tiresome
           as
           my
           Stay.
        
         
           Must
           then
           my
           Halcion
           Love
           all
           Winter
           sleep
           ,
        
         
           And
           ne'r
           launch
           forth
           into
           a
           troubled
           Deep
           ?
        
         
           Must
           I
           desist
           my
           Homage
           to
           perform
           ,
        
         
           And
           sculk
           at
           home
           for
           ev'ry
           peevish
           Storm
           ?
        
         
           If
           thus
           the
           Summer
           Gusts
           detain
           my
           course
           ,
        
         
           How
           shall
           I
           through
           the
           Winter
           Surges
           force
           ?
        
         
           Absence
           ev'n
           then
           I
           shall
           not
           long
           sustain
           ,
        
         
           ●ut
           boldly
           plunge
           into
           the
           raging
           Main
           :
        
         
           ●nd
           if
           the
           swelling
           Floods
           not
           soon
           asswage
           ,
        
         
           ●le
           make
           my
           boasting
           good
           ,
           and
           dare
           their
           rage
           .
        
         
         
           My
           ventrous
           scape
           shall
           in
           your
           Arms
           be
           blest
           ,
        
         
           Or
           if
           I
           'm
           lost
           ,
           my
           Anxious
           Love
           finds
           rest
           .
        
         
           The
           Waves
           at
           least
           will
           do
           my
           Corps
           the
           grace
        
         
           To
           waft
           it
           to
           my
           wonted
           landing
           place
           :
        
         
           Or
           of
           its
           own
           accord
           the
           Amorous
           Clay
           ,
        
         
           Will
           thither
           float
           ,
           nor
           loose
           so
           known
           a
           way
           !
        
         
           I
           guess
           your
           Kindness
           will
           ev'n
           then
           perform
           ,
        
         
           To
           the
           cold
           Trunk
           ,
           what
           you
           were
           wont
           when
           Warm
           ;
        
         
           Your self
           dismantling
           you
           will
           shroud
           me
           ore
           ,
        
         
           And
           grieve
           to
           find
           your
           Bosoms
           warmth
           no
           more
        
         
           Have
           power
           ,
           my
           vital
           Spirits
           to
           restore
           .
        
         
           If
           this
           sad
           Fancy
           discompose
           thy
           Breast
           ,
        
         
           Think
           't
           was
           but
           fancy
           ,
           and
           resume
           thy
           rest
           .
        
         
           Invoke
           the
           Watry
           Pow'rs
           (
           thy
           Prayers
           are
           Charms
           )
        
         
           T'
           asswage
           the
           Storm
           ,
           and
           yield
           me
           to
           thy
           Arms.
        
         
         
           But
           when
           to
           your
           dear
           Mansion
           I
           arrive
           ,
        
         
           Loose
           ev'ry
           Wind
           ,
           and
           let
           the
           Tempest
           drive
           .
        
         
           'T
           will
           give
           my
           stay
           pretence
           ,
           nor
           can
           you
           chide
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           Thunder
           pleads
           so
           loudly
           on
           my
           side
           .
        
         
           'Till
           then
           permit
           this
           Letter
           to
           supply
        
         
           The
           Author's
           place
           ,
           and
           in
           thy
           Bosome
           lye
           .
        
         
           Lodg'd
           in
           thy
           Breast
           ,
           my
           Passion
           't
           will
           impart
           ,
        
         
           And
           whisper
           its
           soft
           Message
           to
           thy
           Heart
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           HERO's
           ANSWER
           TO
           LEANDER
           .
        
         
           BY
           The
           Same
           Hand
           .
        
         
           WIth
           such
           delight
           I
           read
           your
           Letter
           o're
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Presence
           only
           could
           have
           giv'n
           me
           more
           .
        
         
           Excuse
           my
           Passion
           if
           it
           soar
           above
        
         
           Your
           thought
           ;
           no
           Man
           can
           judge
           of
           Womans
           love
           .
        
         
           With
           Bus'ness
           you
           ,
           or
           Pleasures
           may
           sustain
        
         
           The
           Pangs
           of
           Absence
           ,
           and
           divert
           the
           Pain
           .
        
         
         
           The
           Hills
           ,
           the
           Vales
           ,
           the
           Woods
           ,
           and
           streams
           are
           stor'd
        
         
           With
           Game
           ,
           and
           Profit
           with
           Delight
           afford
           .
        
         
           Whilst
           Gins
           for
           Beasts
           ,
           &
           Snares
           for
           Fowl
           you
           set
           ,
        
         
           You
           smile
           ,
           and
           your
           own
           amorous
           Chains
           forget
           .
        
         
           Ten
           thousand
           helps
           besides
           effect
           your
           Cure
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           Womens
           sole
           Relief
           is
           to
           endure
           .
        
         
           Or
           ,
           with
           my
           Confident
           I
           hold
           discourse
           ,
        
         
           Debating
           what
           should
           interrupt
           your
           Course
           :
        
         
           Or
           viewing
           from
           aloft
           the
           troubled
           Tide
           ,
        
         
           Mix
           in
           the
           Fray
           ,
           and
           with
           the
           Tempest
           chide
           ▪
        
         
           Or
           in
           the
           Storms
           least
           Interval
           suspect
        
         
           Your
           stay
           ,
           and
           almost
           charge
           you
           with
           neglect
           .
        
         
           I
           seek
           your
           footsteps
           on
           the
           Sands
           in
           vain
           ,
        
         
           The
           Sands
           no
           more
           confess
           thee
           than
           the
           Main
           .
        
         
           I
           watch
           th'
           arriving
           Barks
           ,
           and
           never
           fail
        
         
           T'
           enquire
           of
           you
           ,
           and
           write
           by
           every
           Sail.
        
         
         
           Still
           as
           the
           setting
           Sun
           restores
           the
           Night
           ,
        
         
           (
           The
           Light
           to
           me
           more
           welcom
           than
           ▪
           the
           Night
           ,
           )
        
         
           I
           fix
           my
           flaming
           Torch
           to
           guide
           my
           Love
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           shines
           there
           any
           friendlier
           Star
           above
           .
        
         
           Then
           with
           my
           Work
           or
           Book
           the
           time
           I
           cheat
           ,
        
         
           And
           '
           midst
           the
           Task
           
           Leander's
           Name
           repeat
           .
        
         
           My
           wedded
           Thoughts
           no
           other
           Theme
           pursue
           ,
        
         
           I
           talk
           a
           hundred
           things
           —
           but
           all
           of
           you
           .
        
         
           What
           think'st
           thou
           ,
           Nurse
           ,
           does
           my
           Leander
           come
           ?
        
         
           Or
           waits
           he
           till
           his
           Parents
           sleep
           at
           home
           ?
        
         
           For
           he
           is
           forc't
           to
           steal
           his
           Passage
           there
           ,
        
         
           As
           nightly
           we
           by
           stealth
           admit
           him
           here
           .
        
         
           Think'st
           Thou
           that
           now
           he
           strips
           him
           in
           the
           Bay
           ,
        
         
           Or
           is
           already
           plung'd
           ,
           and
           on
           his
           way
           ?
        
         
           Whilst
           she
           poor
           Soul
           with
           tedious
           watching
           spent
           ,
        
         
           Makes
           half
           Replies
           ,
           and
           Nodding
           gives
           Assent
           .
        
         
           Yet
           cannot
           I
           the
           smallest
           pause
           allow
           ,
        
         
           But
           cry
           ,
           he
           is
           launch't
           forth
           for
           ●ertain
           now
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           ev'ry
           Moment
           through
           the
           Window
           peep
           ,
        
         
           With
           greedy
           Eyes
           examin
           all
           the
           Deep
           ;
        
         
           And
           whisper
           to
           the
           Floods
           a
           tender
           Prayer
        
         
           In
           your
           behalf
           ,
           as
           if
           I
           '
           spy'd
           you
           there
           .
        
         
           Or
           to
           beguile
           my
           Griefs
           my
           Ear
           incline
           ,
        
         
           And
           take
           each
           gentle
           Breezes
           Voice
           for
           Thine
           :
        
         
           At
           last
           surpriz'd
           with
           sleep
           in
           Dreams
           I
           gain
        
         
           That
           Bliss
           for
           which
           I
           wak't
           so
           long
           in
           vain
           .
        
         
           To
           shroud
           you
           then
           my
           shoulders
           I
           divest
           ,
        
         
           And
           clasp
           you
           shivering
           to
           my
           warmer
           Breast
           ;
        
         
           A
           Lover
           need
           not
           be
           inform'd
           the
           Rest.
        
         
           These
           Pleasures
           oft
           my
           slumb'ring
           thoughts
           imploy
           ,
        
         
           But
           still
           th'
           are
           Dreams
           ,
           and
           yield
           no
           solid
           Joy.
        
         
           Tho'
           ne're
           so
           lively
           the
           fruition
           be
           ,
        
         
           To
           fill
           my
           Bliss
           I
           must
           have
           very
           Thee
           .
        
         
           At
           present
           I
           confess
           the
           Seas
           are
           rough
           ,
        
         
           But
           were
           last
           Night
           compos'd
           ,
           and
           calm
           enough
           ▪
        
         
         
           Why
           did
           you
           then
           my
           longing
           hopes
           delay
           ?
        
         
           Why
           disappoint
           me
           with
           a
           total
           stay
           ?
        
         
           Is
           it
           your
           Fear
           that
           makes
           my
           Wishes
           vain
           ?
        
         
           When
           rougher
           ,
           you
           have
           oft
           engag'd
           the
           Main
           ;
        
         
           If
           it
           be
           Fear
           ,
           that
           friendly
           Fear
           retain
           .
        
         
           Nor
           visit
           me
           till
           you
           securely
           may
           ;
        
         
           Your
           danger
           would
           afflict
           me
           more
           than
           stay
           .
        
         
           Dread
           every
           Gust
           that
           blows
           ,
           But
           oh
           !
           my
           Mind
        
         
           Misgives
           ,
           least
           you
           prove
           various
           as
           that
           Wind.
        
         
           If
           e're
           you
           change
           ,
           your
           Error
           secret
           keep
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           blest
           Ignorance
           permit
           me
           sleep
           .
        
         
           Not
           that
           I
           am
           inform'd
           y'
           are
           chang'd
           at
           all
           ,
        
         
           But
           absent
           Lovers
           fear
           what
           e're
           may
           fall
           .
        
         
           Detain'd
           by
           th'
           Floods
           ,
           your
           stay
           I
           will
           not
           blame
           ;
        
         
           But
           less
           I
           dread
           the
           Floods
           than
           some
           new
           Flame
           .
        
         
           Be
           husht
           ye
           Winds
           ,
           ye
           raging
           Billows
           sleep
           ,
        
         
           And
           yield
           my
           Love
           safe
           passage
           through
           the
           deep
           .
        
         
         
           Blest
           sign
           ,
           the
           Taper
           sparkles
           whilst
           I
           pray
           ,
        
         
           A
           Guest
           i'
           th'
           Flame
           !
           
           Leander's
           on
           his
           way
           !
        
         
           Our
           Houshold
           Altar
           yields
           propitious
           signs
           ,
        
         
           From
           which
           my
           Nurse
           your
           swift
           approach
           divines
           .
        
         
           The
           Crickets
           too
           of
           your
           arrival
           warn
           ,
        
         
           And
           say
           our
           number
           shall
           increase
           e're
           Morn
           .
        
         
           Come
           gentle
           Youth
           ,
           and
           with
           thy
           presence
           make
           ,
        
         
           The
           glad
           Conjecture
           true
           ;
           the
           Day
           will
           break
           ,
        
         
           And
           marr
           our
           bliss
           ,
           prevent
           the
           hastning
           Morn
           ;
        
         
           To
           me
           and
           Loves
           forsaken
           Joys
           return
           .
        
         
           My
           Bed
           without
           Thee
           will
           afford
           no
           Rest
           ,
        
         
           There
           is
           no
           Pillow
           like
           
           Leander's
           Breast
           .
        
         
           Dost
           thou
           suspect
           the
           time
           will
           be
           too
           short
           ?
        
         
           Or
           want'st
           thou
           strength
           th'
           adventure
           to
           support
           ?
        
         
           If
           this
           detain
           thee
           ,
           Oh!
           no
           longer
           stay
           ,
        
         
           I
           'le
           plunge
           and
           meet
           Thee
           in
           the
           Flood
           half
           way
           .
        
         
           Thus
           in
           the
           verdant
           Waves
           our
           Flames
           shall
           meet
           ,
        
         
           And
           danger
           make
           the
           soft
           Embrace
           more
           sweet
           .
        
         
         
           Our
           Love
           's
           our
           own
           ,
           which
           yet
           we
           take
           by
           stealth
           ,
        
         
           Like
           Midnight
           Misers
           from
           their
           hidden
           Wealth
           .
        
         
           'Twixt
           Decency
           ,
           and
           Love
           unhappy
           made
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           Fame
           forbids
           what
           our
           Desires
           perswade
           .
        
         
           How
           art
           Thou
           nightly
           snatch't
           from
           me
           away
           ?
        
         
           To
           dare
           the
           Flood
           when
           Saylers
           keep
           the
           Bay.
        
         
           Yet
           be
           advis'd
           thou
           Conqueror
           of
           the
           Tide
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           in
           thy
           youthful
           Strength
           so
           much
           conside
           .
        
         
           Think
           not
           thine
           Arms
           can
           more
           than
           Oars
           prevail
        
         
           Nor
           dare
           to
           Swim
           when
           Pilots
           fear
           to
           Sail.
        
         
           With
           much
           Regret
           I
           cautiously
           perswade
           ,
        
         
           And
           almost
           wish
           my
           Counsel
           disobey'd
           .
        
         
           Yet
           when
           to
           the
           rough
           Main
           my
           Eyes
           I
           turn
           ,
        
         
           Methinks
           I
           never
           can
           enough
           forewarn
           .
        
         
           Nor
           does
           my
           last
           Nights
           Vision
           less
           affright
           ,
        
         
           (
           Tho'
           expiated
           with
           many
           a
           Sacred
           Rite
           ,
           )
        
         
           A
           sporting
           Dolphin
           ,
           whilst
           the
           Flood
           retir'd
           ,
        
         
           Lay
           hid
           i'
           th'
           Ooze
           ,
           and
           on
           the
           Beach
           expir'd
           .
        
         
         
           What
           er'e
           the
           Dream
           portend
           ,
           as
           yet
           reside
        
         
           In
           the
           safe
           Port
           ,
           nor
           trust
           th'
           inconstant
           Tide
           .
        
         
           The
           Storm
           (
           too
           fierce
           to
           last
           )
           will
           soon
           decay
           ,
        
         
           Then
           with
           redoubled
           speed
           redeem
           your
           stay
           .
        
         
           Till
           then
           ,
           these
           sheets
           some
           pleasure
           may
           impart
           ,
        
         
           They
           bring
           what
           most
           you
           prize
           ,
           your
           
           Hero's
           heart
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           LAODAMIA
           TO
           PROTESILAUS
           .
        
         
           BY
           
             THO.
             FLATMAN
          
           
             Esq
          
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Protesilaus
             lying
             Windbound
             at
             Aulis
             ,
             in
             the
             Grecian
             Fleet
             ,
             design'd
             for
             the
             ●rojan
             War
             ,
             his
             Wife
             Laodamia
             sends
             this
             following
             Epistle
             to
             Him.
             
          
        
         
           HEalth
           to
           the
           gentle
           Man
           of
           War
           ,
           and
           may
        
         
           What
           Laodamia
           sends
           ,
           the
           Gods
           convey
           .
        
         
           The
           Wind
           that
           still
           in
           Aulis
           holds
           my
           Dear
           ,
        
         
           Why
           was
           it
           not
           so
           cross
           to
           keep
           Him
           here
           ?
        
         
         
           Let
           the
           Wind
           raise
           an
           Hurricane
           at
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           Were
           he
           but
           safe
           and
           warm
           ashore
           with
           me
           .
        
         
           Ten
           thousand
           kisses
           I
           had
           more
           to
           give
           him
           ,
        
         
           Ten
           thousand
           cautions
           ,
           and
           soft
           words
           to
           leave
           him
           :
        
         
           In
           hast
           he
           left
           me
           ,
           summon'd
           by
           the
           Wind
           ,
        
         
           (
           The
           Wind
           to
           barbarous
           Mariners
           only
           kind
           )
           .
        
         
           The
           Seaman's
           pleasure
           ,
           is
           the
           Lover's
           pain
           ,
        
         
           (
           Protesilaus
           from
           my
           bosome
           tane
           !
           )
        
         
           As
           from
           my
           faultring
           tongue
           half
           speeches
           fell
           ,
        
         
           (
           Scarce
           could
           I
           speak
           that
           wounding
           word
           Farewell
           ,
        
         
           A
           merry
           Gale
           (
           at
           Sea
           they
           call
           it
           so
           )
        
         
           Fil'd
           every
           Sayl
           with
           joy
           ,
           my
           breast
           with
           wo
           ,
        
         
           There
           went
           my
           dear
           Protesilaus
           —
        
         
           While
           I
           could
           see
           Thee
           ,
           full
           of
           eager
           paine
           ,
        
         
           My
           greedy
           eyes
           epicuriz'd
           on
           Thine
           ,
        
         
           When
           Thee
           no
           more
           ,
           but
           thy
           spread
           Say●s
           I
           view
           ,
        
         
           ●look't
           ,
           and
           lookt
           ,
           till
           I
           had
           lost
           them
           too
           ;
        
         
         
           But
           when
           nor
           Thee
           ,
           nor
           them
           I
           could
           descry
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           was
           Sea
           that
           came
           within
           my
           ey
           ,
        
         
           They
           say
           (
           for
           I
           have
           quite
           forgot
           )
           they
           say
        
         
           I
           strait
           grew
           pale
           ,
           and
           fainted
           quite
           away
           ;
        
         
           Compassionate
           Iphiclus
           ,
           and
           the
           good
           old
           man
           ▪
        
         
           My
           Mother
           too
           to
           my
           assistance
           ran
           ;
        
         
           In
           hast
           cold
           water
           on
           my
           face
           they
           threw
           ,
        
         
           And
           brought
           me
           to
           my self
           with
           much
           ado
           ,
        
         
           They
           meant
           it
           well
           ,
           to
           me
           it
           seem'd
           not
           so
           ,
        
         
           Much
           kinder
           had
           they
           been
           to
           let
           me
           go
           ;
        
         
           My
           anguish
           with
           my
           Soul
           together
           came
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           my
           heart
           burst
           out
           the
           former
           flame
           :
        
         
           Since
           which
           ,
           my
           uncomb'd
           locks
           unheeded
           flow
        
         
           Undrest
           ,
           forlorn
           ,
           I
           care
           not
           how
           I
           go
           ;
        
         
           Inspir'd
           with
           wine
           ,
           thus
           Bacchus
           frolique
           rout
        
         
           Stagger'd
           of
           old
           ,
           and
           straggled
           all
           about
           .
        
         
           Put
           on
           ,
           Put
           on
           ,
           the
           happy
           Ladies
           say
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Royal
           Robes
           fair
           Laodamia
           .
        
         
         
           Alas
           !
           before
           
           Troy's
           Walls
           my
           Dear
           does
           lye
           ,
        
         
           What
           pleasure
           can
           I
           take
           in
           Tyrian
           dy
           ?
        
         
           Shall
           Curles
           adorn
           my
           head
           ,
           an
           Helmet
           thine
           ?
        
         
           ●●in
           bright
           Tissues
           ,
           thou
           in
           Armour
           shine
           ?
        
         
           Rather
           with
           studied
           negligence
           I
           'le
           be
        
         
           ●s
           ill
           ,
           if
           not
           disguised
           worse
           than
           Thee
           .
        
         
           O
           Paris
           !
           rais'd
           by
           ruins
           !
           may'st
           thou
           prove
        
         
           ●s
           fatal
           in
           thy
           War
           ,
           as
           in
           thy
           Love
           !
        
         
           ●●that
           the
           
             Grecian
             Dame
          
           had
           been
           less
           faire
           ,
        
         
           ●r
           thou
           less
           lovely
           hadst
           appear'd
           to
           Her
           !
        
         
           〈◊〉
           Menelaus
           !
           timely
           cease
           to
           strive
           ,
        
         
           ●ith
           how
           much
           blood
           wilt
           thou
           thy
           loss
           retrieve
           ?
        
         
           ●om
           me
           ,
           ye
           Gods
           ,
           avert
           your
           heavy
           doom
           ,
        
         
           ●●d
           bring
           my
           Dear
           ,
           laden
           with
           Laurels
           home
           :
        
         
           ●t
           my
           heart
           fails
           me
           ,
           when
           I
           think
           of
           War
           ,
        
         
           ●e
           sad
           reflection
           costs
           me
           many
           a
           tear
           :
        
         
           ●remble
           when
           I
           hear
           the
           very
           name
        
         
           ●
           every
           place
           where
           thou
           shalt
           fight
           for
           fame
           ;
        
         
         
           Besides
           th'
           adventurous
           Ravisher
           well
           knew
        
         
           The
           safest
           Arts
           his
           Villany
           to
           pursue
           ;
        
         
           In
           noble
           dress
           he
           did
           her
           heart
           surprize
           ,
        
         
           With
           gold
           he
           dazled
           her
           unguarded
           Eyes
           ,
        
         
           He
           back't
           his
           Rape
           with
           Ships
           and
           armed
           Men
           ,
        
         
           Thus
           storm'd
           ,
           thus
           took
           the
           beauteous
           Fortress
           in
           .
        
         
           Against
           the
           power
           of
           Love
           and
           force
           of
           Arms
        
         
           There
           's
           no
           security
           in
           the
           brightest
           Charms
           .
        
         
           Hector
           I
           fear
           ,
           much
           do
           I
           Hector
           fear
           ,
        
         
           A
           man
           (
           they
           say
           )
           experienc'd
           in
           War
           ,
        
         
           My
           Dear
           ,
           if
           thou
           hast
           any
           love
           for
           me
           ,
        
         
           Of
           that
           same
           Hector
           prithee
           mindful
           be
           ,
        
         
           Fly
           him
           be
           sure
           ,
           and
           every
           other
           Foe
           ,
        
         
           Least
           each
           of
           them
           should
           prove
           an
           Hector
           too
           .
        
         
           Remember
           ,
           when
           for
           fight
           thou
           shalt
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Laodamia
           charge'd
           thee
           ,
           Have
           a
           care
           ,
        
         
           For
           what
           wounds
           thou
           receiv'st
           ,
           are
           giv'n
           to
           her
           .
        
         
         
           If
           by
           thy
           valour
           Troy
           must
           ruin'd
           be
           ,
        
         
           May
           not
           the
           ruin
           leave
           one
           scar
           on
           thee
           ;
        
         
           Sharer
           in
           th'
           honour
           from
           the
           danger
           free
           !
        
         
           Let
           Menelaus
           fight
           ,
           and
           force
           his
           way
        
         
           Through
           the
           false
           
           Ravisher's
           Troops
           to
           his
           Helena
           .
        
         
           Great
           be
           his
           Victory
           ,
           as
           his
           Cause
           is
           good
           ,
        
         
           May
           he
           swim
           to
           her
           in
           his
           Enemies
           blood
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Case
           is
           different
           ,
           —
           may'st
           thou
           live
           to
           see
        
         
           (
           Dearest
           )
           no
           other
           Combatant
           but
           me
           !
        
         
           Ye
           generous
           Trojans
           ,
           turn
           your
           Swords
           away
        
         
           ●rom
           his
           dear
           Breast
           ,
           find
           out
           a
           nobler
           prey
           ,
        
         
           Why
           should
           you
           harmless
           Laodamia
           slay
           ?
        
         
           My
           poor
           good
           natur'd
           Man
           did
           never
           know
        
         
           What'tis
           to
           fight
           ,
           or
           how
           to
           face
           a
           Foe
           ;
        
         
           ●et
           in
           Love's
           Field
           what
           wonders
           can
           he
           do
           ?
        
         
           ●reat
           is
           his
           Prowess
           and
           his
           Fortune
           too
           ;
        
         
           ●et
           them
           go
           fight
           ,
           who
           know
           not
           how
           to
           woo
           .
        
         
         
           Now
           I
           must
           own
           ,
           I
           fear'd
           to
           let
           thee
           go
           ,
        
         
           My
           trembling
           lips
           had
           almost
           told
           thee
           so
           .
        
         
           When
           from
           thy
           Father's
           House
           thou
           didst
           withdraw
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           fatal
           stumble
           at
           the
           door
           I
           saw
           ,
        
         
           I
           saw
           it
           ,
           sigh'd
           ,
           and
           pray'd
           the
           sign
           might
           be
        
         
           Of
           thy
           return
           a
           happy
           Prophecie
           !
        
         
           I
           cannot
           but
           acquaint
           thee
           with
           my
           fear
           ,
        
         
           Be
           not
           too
           brave
           ,
           —
           Remember
           ,
           —
           Have
           a
           care
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           my
           dreads
           will
           vanish
           into
           Air.
        
         
           Among
           the
           Grecians
           some
           one
           must
           be
           found
        
         
           That
           first
           shall
           set
           his
           foot
           on
           Trojan
           ground
           ;
        
         
           Unhappy
           she
           that
           shall
           his
           loss
           bewail
           ,
        
         
           Grant
           ,
           O
           ye
           Gods
           ,
           thy
           courage
           then
           may
           fail
           .
        
         
           Of
           all
           the
           Ships
           ,
           be
           thine
           the
           very
           last
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           the
           last
           man
           that
           lands
           ;
           there
           needs
           no
           haste●
        
         
           To
           meet
           a
           potent
           ,
           and
           a
           treacherous
           foe
           ;
        
         
           Thou
           'lt
           land
           I
           fear
           too
           soon
           ,
           tho'
           ne're
           so
           slow
           .
        
         
         
           At
           thy
           return
           ply
           every
           Sail
           and
           Oar
           ,
        
         
           And
           nimbly
           leap
           on
           thy
           deserted
           shore
           .
        
         
           All
           the
           day
           long
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           lonely
           night
        
         
           Black
           thoughts
           of
           thee
           my
           anxious
           Soul
           affright
           ▪
        
         
           Darkness
           ,
           to
           other
           womens
           pleasures
           kind
           ,
        
         
           Augments
           ,
           like
           Hell
           ,
           the
           torments
           of
           my
           mind
           .
        
         
           I
           court
           e'en
           Dreams
           ,
           on
           my
           forsaken
           Bed
           ,
        
         
           false
           Joys
           must
           serve
           ,
           since
           all
           my
           true
           are
           fled
           .
        
         
           What
           's
           that
           same
           aiery
           Phantom
           so
           like
           thee
           !
        
         
           What
           wailings
           do
           I
           hear
           ,
           what
           paleness
           see
           ?
        
         
           I
           wake
           ,
           and
           hugg
           my self
           ,
           '
           it
           s
           but
           a
           Dream
           —
        
         
           The
           Grecian
           Altars
           know
           I
           feed
           their
           flame
           ,
        
         
           The
           want
           of
           hallow'd
           Wine
           my
           tears
           supply
           ,
        
         
           Which
           make
           the
           sacred
           fire
           burn
           bright
           and
           high
           .
        
         
           When
           shall
           I
           clasp
           thee
           in
           these
           Arms
           of
           mine
           ,
        
         
           These
           longing
           Arms
           ,
           and
           lye
           dissolv'd
           in
           thine
           ?
        
         
           When
           shall
           I
           have
           thee
           by
           thy self
           alone
           ,
        
         
           To
           learn
           the
           wondrous
           Actions
           thou
           hast
           done
           ?
        
         
         
           Which
           when
           in
           rapturous
           words
           thou
           hast
           begun
        
         
           With
           many
           ,
           and
           many
           a
           kiss
           ,
           prithee
           tell
           on
           ,
        
         
           Such
           interruptions
           graceful
           pauses
           are
           ,
        
         
           A
           Kiss
           in
           Story
           's
           but
           an
           Halt
           in
           War.
        
         
           But
           ,
           when
           I
           think
           of
           Troy
           ,
           of
           winds
           and
           waves
           ,
        
         
           I
           fear
           the
           pleasent
           dream
           my
           hope
           deceives
           :
        
         
           Contrary
           winds
           in
           Port
           detain
           thee
           too
           ,
        
         
           In
           spite
           of
           wind
           and
           tide
           why
           wouldst
           thou
           go
           ?
        
         
           Thus
           ,
           to
           thy
           country
           thou
           wouldst
           hardly
           come
           ,
        
         
           In
           spite
           of
           wind
           &
           tide
           thou
           went'st
           from
           home
           .
        
         
           To
           his
           own
           City
           Neptune
           stops
           the
           way
           ,
        
         
           Revere
           the
           Omen
           ,
           and
           the
           God's
           obey
           .
        
         
           Return
           ye
           furious
           Grecians
           ,
           homeward
           fly
           ,
        
         
           Your
           stay
           is
           not
           of
           Chance
           ,
           but
           Destiny
           :
        
         
           How
           can
           your
           Arms
           expect
           desir'd
           success
           ,
        
         
           That
           thus
           contend
           for
           an
           Adulteress
           ?
        
         
           But
           ,
           let
           not
           me
           forespeak
           you
           ,
           no
           ,
           —
           set
           Sail
           ,
        
         
           And
           Heav'n
           befriend
           you
           with
           a
           prosperous
           gale
           ;
        
         
         
           Ye
           Trojans
           !
           with
           regret
           methinks
           I
           see
        
         
           Your
           first
           encounter
           with
           your
           Enemy
           ;
        
         
           I
           see
           fair
           Helen
           put
           on
           all
           her
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           To
           buckle
           on
           her
           lusty
           Bridegroom's
           Arms
           ;
        
         
           She
           gives
           him
           Arms
           ,
           and
           kisses
           she
           receives
           ,
        
         
           (
           I
           hate
           the
           transports
           each
           to
           other
           gives
           )
           .
        
         
           She
           leads
           him
           forth
           ,
           and
           she
           commands
           him
           come
        
         
           Safely
           victorious
           ,
           and
           triumphant
           home
           ,
        
         
           And
           he
           (
           no
           doubt
           )
           will
           make
           no
           nice
           delay
           ,
        
         
           But
           diligently
           do
           whate're
           she
           say
           ;
        
         
           Now
           he
           returns
           !
           —
           see
           with
           what
           amorous
           speed
        
         
           She
           takes
           the
           pond'rous
           Helmet
           from
           his
           head
           ,
        
         
           And
           courts
           the
           weary
           Champion
           to
           her
           bed
           .
        
         
           We
           women
           ,
           too
           too
           credulous
           alas
           !
        
         
           Think
           what
           we
           fear
           ,
           will
           surely
           come
           to
           pass
           .
        
         
           Yet
           ,
           while
           before
           the
           Leagure
           thou
           dost
           lye
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Picture
           is
           some
           pleasure
           to
           my
           Eye
           ,
        
         
         
           That
           ,
           I
           caress
           in
           words
           most
           kind
           and
           free
           ,
        
         
           And
           lodge
           it
           on
           my
           Breast
           ,
           as
           I
           would
           Thee
           ;
        
         
           There
           must
           be
           something
           in
           It
           more
           than
           Art
           ,
        
         
           'T
           were
           very
           Thee
           ,
           could
           it
           thy
           mind
           impart
           ;
        
         
           I
           kiss
           the
           pretty
           Idol
           ,
           and
           complain
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           (
           like
           Thee
           )
           't
           would
           answer
           me
           again
           .
        
         
           By
           our
           Loves
           Vows
           ,
           which
           most
           relgious
           are
           ,
        
         
           By
           thy
           beloved
           Head
           ,
           and
           those
           gray
           Hairs
        
         
           Which
           Time
           may
           on
           it
           Snow
           ,
           in
           future
           years
           ,
        
         
           I
           come
           ,
           where're
           thy
           Fate
           shall
           bid
           Thee
           go
           ,
        
         
           Eternal
           Partner
           of
           thy
           weal
           and
           woe
           ,
        
         
           So
           Thou
           but
           live
           ,
           tho'
           all
           the
           God's
           say
           No.
        
         
           Farewel
           ,
           —
           but
           prethee
           very
           careful
           be
        
         
           Of
           thy
           beloved
           Self
           (
           I
           mean
           )
           of
           me
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           PHILLIS
           to
           DEMOPHOON
           .
        
         
           BY
           Mr.
           
             ED.
             FLOYD
          
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Demophoon
             ,
             the
             Son
             of
             Theseus
             and
             Phaedra
             '
             returning
             from
             the
             Trojan
             Wars
             ,
             was
             by
             adverse
             Winds
             driv's
             on
             the
             Thracian
             shore
             ,
             where
             he
             was
             royally
             entertained
             ,
             and
             received
             into
             familiarity
             by
             Phillis
             Daughter
             of
             Lycurgus
             and
             Crustumena
             ,
             King
             and
             Queen
             of
             Thrace
             :
             with
             whom
             ,
             after
             he
             had
             a
             while
             remain'd
             ,
             hearing
             of
             the
             death
             of
             Mnestheus
             (
             the
             Deposer
             of
             his
             Father
             )
             he
             went
             to
             take
             possession
             of
             his
             own
             Realm
             of
             Athens
             ,
             yet
             with
             earnest
             protestations
             of
             returning
             within
             the
             space
             of
             one
             month
             .
             But
             being
             detain'd
             past
             the
             appointed
             time
             by
             the
             distractions
             his
             people
             were
             under
             ,
             he
             gave
             occasion
             to
             Phillis
             (
             impatient
             of
             delays
             )
             to
             write
             him
             this
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           PHillis
           (
           who
           entertain'd
           thy
           Love
           and
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           Faithless
           Demophoon
           )
           blames
           thy
           Periury
           :
        
         
         
           How
           when
           withpain
           we
           parted
           didst
           thou
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           And
           seem'dst
           to
           live
           alone
           for
           thy
           return
           !
        
         
           How
           didst
           thou
           limit
           my
           distress
           ,
           and
           swear
        
         
           Within
           one
           month
           thy
           speedy
           presence
           here
           !
        
         
           Yet
           now
           four
           Moons
           are
           weary'd
           out
           ,
           and
           see
        
         
           Thee
           still
           regardless
           of
           thy
           Vows
           and
           me
           .
        
         
           Hadst
           thou
           a
           tender
           sense
           to
           know
           the
           pain
        
         
           Of
           absent
           Lovers
           ,
           who
           expect
           in
           vain
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           wouldst
           not
           call
           me
           hasty
           ,
           nor
           upbraid
        
         
           These
           humble
           murmurs
           of
           a
           wife
           betray'd
           .
        
         
           We
           're
           slow
           in
           our
           believing
           Ills
           ,
           for
           I
        
         
           Flatter'd
           my self
           that
           yet
           I
           shou'd
           not
           dye
           :
        
         
           My self
           I
           've
           oft
           deluded
           ,
           —
           thought
           thee
           kind
           —
        
         
           —
           Thy
           Ship
           returning
           with
           a
           prosp'rous
           wind
           :
        
         
           Theseus
           I
           've
           curst
           ,
           and
           yet
           unjustly
           him
           ,
        
         
           For
           thou
           perhaps
           art
           Author
           of
           thy
           Crime
           .
        
         
           The
           dang'rous
           shoals
           of
           Hebrus
           made
           me
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           As
           fancying
           thee
           expos'd
           in
           thy
           return
           .
        
         
         
           Oft
           for
           thy
           health
           I
           've
           sought
           the
           Gods
           by
           pray'r
           ,
        
         
           And
           Incense
           burnt
           to
           place
           thee
           in
           their
           care
           .
        
         
           When
           e're
           the
           Wind
           stood
           fair
           ,
           I
           fancy'd
           streight
        
         
           Thy
           sudden
           presence
           or
           thy
           certain
           fate
           .
        
         
           Then
           have
           I
           study'd
           reasons
           for
           thy
           stay
           ,
        
         
           And
           urg'd
           my
           wit
           to
           savour
           thy
           delay
           :
        
         
           Yet
           dost
           not
           thou
           the
           sense
           of
           Vows
           retain
           ,
        
         
           To
           Gods
           ,
           and
           me
           ,
           made
           equally
           in
           vain
           .
        
         
           Thy
           strictest
           Vows
           did
           mix
           with
           common
           Air
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           does
           thy
           tardy
           Fleet
           the
           fault
           repair
           .
        
         
           Thy
           absence
           fully
           does
           my
           Crime
           reprove
           ,
        
         
           And
           seems
           design'd
           to
           pay
           so
           cheap
           a
           Love.
        
         
           My
           only
           fault
           was
           loving
           easily
           ,
        
         
           And
           yet
           that
           fault
           claims
           gratitude
           in
           Thee
           .
        
         
           Where
           's
           now
           thy
           faith
           ,
           —
           thy
           supplyant
           hands
           ,
           and
           where
        
         
           The
           God
           prophan'd
           by
           thy
           fallacious
           pray'r
           ?
        
         
         
           Where
           's
           Hymen
           now
           that
           should
           our
           hearts
           unite
           ,
        
         
           Bless
           and
           secure
           our
           conjugal
           delight
           ?
        
         
           First
           ,
           by
           the
           Sea
           thou
           swor'st
           thy
           meaning
           just
           ,
        
         
           The
           Sea
           that
           then
           thou
           wert
           about
           to
           trust
           :
        
         
           Thou
           swor'st
           by
           thy
           prentended
           Grandsire's
           name
        
         
           The
           God
           that
           does
           rebellious
           storms
           reclaim
           :
        
         
           By
           Venus
           and
           by
           Love's
           Artillery
           ,
        
         
           The
           Instruments
           of
           mighty
           woes
           to
           me
           :
        
         
           By
           Iuno
           ,
           who
           of
           marriage
           Vows
           takes
           care
           ,
        
         
           And
           Ceres
           ,
           who
           the
           hallow'd
           Torch
           does
           bear
           :
        
         
           Shou'd
           these
           wrong'd
           Pow'rs
           be
           just
           ,
           cou'dst
           thou
        
         
           withstand
        
         
           The
           angry
           stroke
           of
           an
           Almighty
           hand
           ?
        
         
           Thy
           Ships
           I
           did
           repair
           ,
           thy
           Sails
           improve
           ,
        
         
           And
           strengthen'd
           the
           deserter
           of
           my
           Love.
        
         
           I
           gave
           thee
           Oars
           as
           Instruments
           of
           speed
           ,
        
         
           And
           sharpen'd
           all
           the
           darts
           by
           which
           I
           bleed
           .
        
         
         
           Thy
           Words
           ,
           —
           Thy
           Kindred
           Gods
           —
           whate're
           was
           fain'd
           ,
        
         
           With
           Joy
           I
           heard
           ,
           with
           Faith
           I
           entertain'd
           :
        
         
           View'd
           with
           regard
           thy
           false
           commanded
           tears
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           artful
           sorrow
           ,
           and
           thy
           seeming
           fears
           .
        
         
           Thy
           Arts
           of
           Love
           to
           me
           thou
           might'st
           have
           spar'd
           ,
        
         
           For
           I
           was
           too
           unhappily
           prepar'd
           .
        
         
           Nor
           shou'd
           I
           grieve
           to
           have
           well
           treated
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           And
           limited
           my
           hospitality
           ,
        
         
           But
           to
           admit
           thee
           loosely
           to
           my
           breast
           ,
        
         
           Is
           Treason
           ,
           fatal
           to
           my
           present
           rest
           .
        
         
           Ah!
           had
           I
           dy'd
           before
           that
           evening
           came
           ,
        
         
           I
           then
           had
           dy'd
           in
           peace
           ,
           secure
           of
           fame
           .
        
         
           Yielding
           I
           hop'd
           thy
           gratitude
           might
           move
           ,
        
         
           And
           shewing
           mine
           ,
           deserve
           thy
           utmost
           love
           .
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           inglorious
           thus
           to
           have
           betray'd
        
         
           (
           All
           pittiless
           )
           a
           frail
           believing
           Maid
           :
        
         
         
           A
           Maid
           that
           lov'd
           thee
           thou
           hast
           rob'd
           of
           fame
           ▪
        
         
           And
           may
           no
           greater
           honour
           reach
           thy
           name
           .
        
         
           In
           Athens
           when
           thy
           Statue
           shall
           be
           plac'd
        
         
           Near
           thy
           great
           Father
           with
           his
           Trophies
           grac'd
           :
        
         
           When
           Scyron
           and
           Procrustes
           shall
           be
           read
           ,
        
         
           Scinis
           and
           Minotaure
           in
           triumph
           lead
           :
        
         
           Thebes
           quite
           reduc'd
           ,
           the
           
           Centaure's
           overcome
           ,
        
         
           Hell
           storm'd
           ,
           &
           the
           black
           King
           disturb'd
           at
           home
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           hated
           Image
           thus
           inscrib'd
           shall
           End
           ,
           —
        
         
           —
           He
           who
           betray'd
           his
           Mistress
           and
           his
           Friend
           .
        
         
           Of
           all
           thy
           mighty
           Father
           has
           atchiev'd
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           lik'st
           that
           Ariadne
           was
           deceiv'd
           :
        
         
           What
           he
           repented
           ,
           thou
           dost
           still
           admire
           ,
        
         
           And
           only
           to
           his
           treachery
           art
           Heir
           :
        
         
           (
           unenvy'd
           )
           she
           enjoys
           a
           nobler
           Mate
           ,
        
         
           And
           drawn
           by
           harness'd
           Tygres
           ,
           rides
           in
           state
           .
        
         
           The
           
           Thracian's
           ,
           whom
           I
           scorn'd
           ,
           now
           ▪
           shun
           my
           bed
           ,
        
         
           As
           one
           by
           strange
           polluted
           hands
           misled
           :
        
         
         
           Says
           one
           ,
           let
           learned
           Athens
           be
           her
           place
           ,
        
         
           Some
           nobler
           Hand
           shall
           govern
           warlike
           Thrace
           .
        
         
           The
           End
           proves
           all
           —
           and
           may
           he
           never
           hit
        
         
           His
           rash
           presage
           ,
           who
           dares
           condemn
           thee
           yet
           ,
        
         
           For
           shou'dst
           thou
           now
           return
           ,
           each
           will
           conclude
        
         
           I
           study'd
           with
           my
           own
           my
           Country's
           good
           :
        
         
           I
           've
           fail'd
           ,
           alas
           !
           Thou
           no
           review
           dost
           make
        
         
           Or
           of
           my
           Palace
           or
           the
           Chrystal
           Lake
           .
        
         
           My
           eyes
           retain
           thy
           graceful
           Image
           ,
           when
        
         
           With
           mournful
           Bowes
           thou
           bad'st
           me
           hope
           agen
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           did'st
           embrace
           me
           ,
           and
           with
           such
           delay
           ,
        
         
           That
           long
           breath'd
           kisses
           seem'd
           to
           mean
           thy
           stay
           ;
        
         
           Thou
           didst
           exchange
           ,
           and
           mix
           our
           tears
           ,
           &
           swear
        
         
           The
           Wind
           was
           inauspicious
           ,
           when
           't
           was
           fair
           ;
        
         
           When
           our
           divorce
           thou
           cou'dst
           no
           more
           decline
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           saidst
           ,
           
             Expect
             me
          
           —
           Phillis
           ,
           I
           am
           thine
           :
        
         
           Him
           I
           expect
           ,
           who
           meant
           to
           come
           no
           more
           ,
        
         
           And
           Ships
           no
           more
           design'd
           to
           touch
           this
           shore
           :
        
         
         
           Yet
           still
           I
           hope
           —
           ah
           !
           come
           ,
           tho'
           past
           thy
           time
           ,
        
         
           That
           thy
           delay
           may
           be
           thy
           only
           Crime
           .
        
         
           Some
           wanton
           Maid
           (
           perhaps
           )
           seduces
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           And
           buyes
           thy
           love
           with
           cheap
           discourse
           of
           me
           .
        
         
           Thou
           can'st
           not
           be
           unmindful
           who
           I
           am
           ,
        
         
           Consult
           thy self
           for
           my
           neglected
           name
           ;
        
         
           Phillis
           thy
           Constant
           ,
           hospitable
           Friend
           ,
        
         
           Who
           did
           her
           harbour
           and
           assistance
           lend
           :
        
         
           Love
           ,
           Empire
           ,
           All
           submitted
           to
           thy
           will
           ,
        
         
           Who
           gave
           thee
           much
           ,
           &
           wish'd
           to
           give
           thee
           still
           ;
        
         
           
           Lycurgus's
           Land
           surrender'd
           to
           thy
           sway
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           thy
           Hand
           its
           Scepter
           did
           convey
           ,
        
         
           As
           far
           as
           Rhodope
           and
           Haemus
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           soft
           streams
           of
           sacred
           Hebrus
           flow
           ;
        
         
           Thee
           my
           last
           blushes
           blest
           ,
           thy
           loves
           long
           toyles
        
         
           Rewarded
           with
           my
           conquer'd
           Virging
           Spoyles
           .
        
         
           The
           howling
           Fiends
           and
           ominous
           Birds
           of
           Night
        
         
           With
           dismal
           notes
           perform'd
           each
           Nuptial
           Rite
           :
        
         
         
           With
           her
           curl'd
           Snakes
           the
           fierce
           Alecto
           Came
           ,
        
         
           To
           light
           our
           Tapers
           with
           infernal
           flame
           .
        
         
           On
           Rocks
           I
           walk
           —
           and
           o're
           the
           barren
           Sand
           ,
        
         
           Far
           as
           my
           Eyes
           can
           reach
           the
           spacious
           Strand
           ;
        
         
           Look
           out
           all
           hours
           to
           see
           what
           Wind
           stands
           fair
           ,
        
         
           By
           Earths
           cold
           damp
           untir'd
           ,
           or
           Heav'ns
           bleake
           air
           ;
        
         
           When
           any
           distant
           Sayl
           I
           chance
           to
           spy
           ,
        
         
           I
           fancy
           thy
           loose
           Streamers
           drawing
           nigh
           ;
        
         
           Launch'd
           into
           Sea
           ,
           the
           tardy
           Gales
           I
           chide
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           meet
           thee
           I
           stem
           th'
           impetuous
           Tide
           ;
        
         
           When
           their
           approach
           declares
           my
           hopes
           are
           vain
           ,
        
         
           I
           fainting
           crave
           th'
           assistance
           of
           my
           Train
           .
        
         
           Above
           the
           Bay
           ,
           which
           the
           spent
           Billows
           blocks
           ,
        
         
           And
           form
           's
           a
           Precipice
           of
           pendent
           Rocks
           ,
        
         
           Thence
           my
           despair
           presented
           me
           a
           grave
           ,
        
         
           And
           nought
           but
           thy
           return
           my
           life
           shall
           save
           .
        
         
           May
           some
           kind
           Wave
           to
           thy
           own
           Shore
           convey
           ,
        
         
           And
           at
           thy
           feet
           thy
           floating
           Phillis
           lay
           ,
        
         
         
           Thy
           melting
           heart
           this
           dismal
           sound
           will
           groan
           ,
        
         
           In
           these
           Embraces
           joyn'd
           ,
           we
           meet
           too
           soon
           —
        
         
           Oft
           have
           I
           thirsted
           for
           a
           pois'nous
           draught
           ,
        
         
           As
           oft
           a
           death
           from
           some
           kind
           Ponyard
           sought
           ;
        
         
           Oft
           round
           that
           neck
           a
           silken
           Twine
           I
           cast
           ,
        
         
           Which
           once
           thy
           dear
           per●idious
           Arms
           embrac'd
           .
        
         
           By
           death
           I
           'le
           heal
           my
           present
           Infamy
           ,
        
         
           But
           stay
           to
           choose
           the
           speediest
           way
           to
           dye
           .
        
         
           This
           sad
           ●hort
           Epitaph
           shall
           speak
           my
           doom
           ,
        
         
           And
           fix
           my
           mournful
           story
           on
           my
           Tomb
           ,
        
         
           This
           Monument
           did
           false
           Demophoon
           build
           ,
        
         
           With
           the
           cold
           Ashes
           of
           his
           Mistress
           fill'd
           ;
        
         
           He
           was
           the
           cause
           ,
           and
           hers
           the
           hand
           that
           kill'd
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           PARAPHRASE
           ON
           OENONE
           to
           PARIS
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           rs
           .
           
             A.
             BEHN
          
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Hecuba
             being
             with
             Child
             of
             Paris
             ,
             dreamt
             she
             was
             delivered
             of
             a
             Firebrand
             ,
             Priam
             consulting
             the
             Prophets
             ,
             was
             answer'd
             the
             Child
             shou'd
             be
             the
             Cause
             of
             the
             Destruction
             of
             Troy
             ,
             wherefore
             Priam
             commanded
             it
             should
             be
             deliver'd
             to
             wild
             Beasts
             as
             soon
             as
             born
             ;
             but
             Hecuba
             conveys
             it
             secretly
             to
             Mount
             Ida
             ,
             there
             to
             be
             foster'd
             by
             the
             Shepherds
             ,
             where
             he
             falls
             in
             love
             with
             the
             Nymph
             Oenone
             ,
             but
             at
             length
             being
             known
             and
             own'd
             ,
             he
             sayls
             into
             Greece
             ,
             and
             carries
             Helen
             to
             Troy
             ,
             which
             Oenone
             hearing
             ,
             writes
             him
             this
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           TO
           thee
           ,
           dear
           Paris
           ,
           Lord
           of
           my
           Desires
           ,
        
         
           Once
           tender
           Partner
           of
           my
           softest
           Fires
           ;
        
         
         
           To
           thee
           I
           write
           ,
           mine
           ,
           whilst
           a
           Shepherds
           Swain
           ,
        
         
           But
           now
           a
           Prince
           ,
           that
           Title
           you
           disdain
           .
        
         
           Oh
           fatal
           pomp
           ,
           that
           cou'd
           so
           soon
           divide
        
         
           What
           Love
           ,
           and
           all
           our
           Vows
           so
           firmly
           ty'd
           !
        
         
           What
           God
           our
           Loves
           industrious
           to
           prevent
           ,
        
         
           Curst
           thee
           with
           power
           ,
           and
           ruin'd
           my
           Content
           ?
        
         
           Greatness
           which
           does
           at
           best
           but
           ill
           agree
        
         
           With
           Love
           ,
           such
           Distance
           sets
           'twixt
           Thee
           &
           Me.
        
         
           Whilst
           thou
           a
           Prince
           ,
           and
           I
           a
           Shepherdess
           ,
        
         
           My
           raging
           Passion
           can
           have
           no
           redress
           .
        
         
           Wou'd
           God
           ,
           when
           first
           I
           saw
           thee
           ,
           thou
           hadst
           been
           .
        
         
           This
           Great
           ,
           this
           Cruel
           ,
           Celebrated
           thing
           .
        
         
           That
           without
           hope
           I
           might
           have
           gaz'd
           &
           bow'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           mixt
           my
           Adoration
           with
           the
           Crowd
           ;
        
         
           Unwounded
           then
           I
           had
           escap'd
           those
           Eyes
           ,
        
         
           Those
           lovely
           Authors
           of
           my
           Miseries
           .
        
         
           Not
           that
           less
           Charms
           their
           fatal
           pow'r
           had
           drest
           ,
        
         
           But
           Fear
           and
           Awe
           my
           Love
           had
           then
           supprest
           :
        
         
         
           My
           unambitious
           Heart
           no
           Flame
           had
           known
           ,
        
         
           But
           what
           Devotion
           pays
           to
           Gods
           alone
           .
        
         
           I
           might
           have
           wonder'd
           ,
           and
           have
           wisht
           that
           He
           ,
        
         
           Whom
           Heaven
           shou'd
           make
           me
           love
           ,
           might
           look
        
         
           like
           Thee
           .
        
         
           More
           in
           a
           silly
           Nymph
           had
           been
           a
           sin
           ,
        
         
           This
           had
           the
           height
           of
           my
           presumption
           been
           .
        
         
           But
           thou
           a
           Flock
           didst
           feed
           on
           
           Ida's
           Plain
           ,
        
         
           And
           hadst
           no
           Title
           ,
           but
           
             The
             lovely
             Swain
          
           .
        
         
           A
           Title
           !
           which
           more
           Virgin
           Hearts
           has
           won
           ,
        
         
           Then
           that
           of
           being
           own'd
           King
           
           Priam's
           Son.
        
         
           Whilst
           me
           a
           harmless
           Neighbouring
           Cottager
        
         
           You
           saw
           ,
           and
           did
           above
           the
           rest
           preser
           .
        
         
           You
           saw
           !
           and
           at
           first
           sight
           you
           lov'd
           me
           too
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           cou'd
           I
           hide
           the
           wounds
           receiv'd
           from
           you
           .
        
         
           Me
           all
           the
           Village
           Herdsmen
           strove
           to
           gain
           ,
        
         
           For
           me
           the
           Shepherds
           sigh'd
           and
           su'd
           in
           vain
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           hadst
           my
           heart
           ,
           and
           they
           my
           cold
           disdain
           .
        
         
         
           Not
           all
           their
           Offerings
           ,
           Garlands
           ,
           and
           first
           born
        
         
           Of
           their
           lov'd
           Ewes
           ,
           cou'd
           bribe
           my
           Native
           scorn
           .
        
         
           My
           Love
           ,
           like
           hidden
           Treasure
           long
           conceal'd
           ,
        
         
           Cou'd
           only
           where
           't
           was
           destin'd
           ,
           be
           reveal'd
           .
        
         
           And
           yet
           how
           long
           my
           Maiden
           blushes
           strove
        
         
           Not
           to
           betray
           the
           easie
           new
           born
           Love.
        
         
           But
           at
           thy
           sight
           the
           kindling
           Fire
           wou'd
           rife
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           ,
           unskil'd
           ,
           declare
           it
           at
           my
           Eyes
           .
        
         
           But
           oh
           the
           Joy
           !
           the
           mighty
           Extasy
        
         
           Possest
           thy
           Soul
           at
           this
           Discovery
           .
        
         
           Speechless
           ,
           and
           panting
           at
           my
           feet
           you
           lay
           ,
        
         
           And
           short-breath'd
           Sighs
           told
           what
           you
           cou'd
           not
           say
           .
        
         
           A
           thousand
           times
           my
           hand
           with
           Kisses
           prest
           ,
        
         
           And
           look'd
           such
           Darts
           ,
           as
           none
           cou'd
           e're
           resist
           .
        
         
           Silent
           we
           gaz'd
           ,
           and
           as
           my
           Eyes
           met
           thine
           ,
        
         
           New
           Joy
           fill'd
           theirs
           ,
           new
           Love
           and
           shame
           fill'd
           mine
           !
        
         
           You
           saw
           the
           Fears
           my
           kind
           disorder
           shows
           ,
        
         
           And
           broke
           your
           Silence
           with
           a
           thousand
           Vows
           !
        
         
         
           Heavens
           ,
           how
           you
           swore
           !
           by
           ev'ry
           Pow'r
           Divine
        
         
           You
           wou'd
           be
           ever
           true
           !
           be
           ever
           mine
           :
        
         
           Each
           God
           ,
           a
           sacred
           witness
           you
           invoke
           ,
        
         
           And
           wish'd
           their
           Curse
           when
           e're
           these
           Vows
           you
           broke
           .
        
         
           Quick
           to
           my
           Heart
           the
           perjur'd
           Accents
           ran
           ,
        
         
           Which
           I
           took
           in
           ,
           believ'd
           ,
           and
           was
           undone
           .
        
         
           "
           Vows
           are
           Loves
           poyson'd
           Arrows
           ,
           &
           the
           heart
        
         
           So
           wounded
           ,
           rarely
           finds
           a
           Cure
           in
           Art.
        
         
           At
           least
           this
           heart
           which
           Fate
           has
           destin'd
           yours
           ,
        
         
           This
           heart
           unpractic'd
           in
           Loves
           mystick
           pow'rs
           ,
        
         
           For
           I
           am
           soft
           ,
           and
           young
           as
           April
           Flowers
           .
        
         
           Now
           uncontroul'd
           we
           meet
           ,
           uncheck't
           improve
        
         
           Each
           happier
           Minute
           in
           new
           Joys
           of
           Love
           !
        
         
           Soft
           were
           our
           hours
           !
           and
           lavishly
           the
           Day
        
         
           We
           gave
           intirely
           up
           to
           Love
           ,
           and
           Play.
        
         
           Oft
           to
           the
           cooling
           Groves
           ,
           our
           Flocks
           we
           led
           ,
        
         
           And
           seated
           on
           some
           shaded
           ,
           flowry
           Bed
           ;
        
         
           Watch'd
           the
           united
           Wantons
           as
           they
           fed
           .
        
         
         
           And
           all
           the
           Day
           my
           list'ning
           Soul
           I
           hung
           ,
        
         
           Upon
           the
           charming
           Musick
           of
           thy
           Tongue
           ,
        
         
           And
           never
           thought
           the
           blessed
           hours
           too
           long
           .
        
         
           No
           Swain
           ,
           no
           God
           like
           thee
           cou'd
           ever
           move
           ,
        
         
           Or
           had
           so
           soft
           an
           Art
           in
           whispering
           Love
           ,
        
         
           No
           wonder
           that
           thou
           wert
           Ally'd
           to
           Iove
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           you
           pip'd
           ,
           or
           sung
           ,
           or
           danc'd
           ,
           or
           spoke
           ,
        
         
           The
           God
           appear'd
           in
           every
           Grace
           ,
           and
           Look
           .
        
         
           Pride
           of
           the
           Swains
           ,
           and
           Glory
           of
           the
           Shades
           ,
        
         
           The
           Grief
           ,
           and
           Joy
           of
           all
           the
           Love-sick
           Maids
           .
        
         
           Thus
           whilst
           all
           hearts
           you
           rul'd
           without
           Controul
           ,
        
         
           I
           reign'd
           the
           absolute
           Monarch
           of
           your
           Soul.
        
         
           Each
           Beach
           my
           Name
           yet
           bears
           ,
           carv'd
           out
           by
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Paris
           ,
           and
           his
           Oenone
           fill
           each
           Tree
           ;
        
         
           And
           as
           they
           grow
           the
           Letters
           larger
           spread
           ,
        
         
           Grow
           still
           !
           a
           witness
           of
           my
           Wrongs
           when
           dead
           !
        
         
         
           Close
           by
           a
           silent
           silver
           Brook
           there
           grows
        
         
           A
           Poplar
           ,
           under
           whose
           dear
           gloomy
           Boughs
        
         
           A
           thousand
           times
           we
           have
           exchang'd
           our
           Vows
           !
        
         
           Oh
           may'st
           thou
           grow
           !
           to
           an
           endless
           date
           of
           Years
           !
        
         
           Who
           on
           thy
           Bark
           this
           fatal
           Record
           bears
           ;
        
         
           When
           Paris
           to
           Oenone
           
             proves
             untrue
          
           ,
        
         
           Back
           Xanthus
           Streams
           shall
           to
           their
           Fountains
           ●low
           .
        
         
           Turn
           !
           turn
           !
           your
           Tide
           ,
           back
           to
           your
           Fountains
           run
           !
        
         
           The
           perjur'd
           Swain
           from
           all
           his
           Faith
           is
           gone
           !
        
         
           Curst
           be
           that
           day
           ,
           may
           Fate
           point
           out
           the
           hour
           ,
        
         
           As
           Ominous
           in
           his
           black
           Kalender
           ;
        
         
           When
           
             Venus
             ,
             Pallas
          
           ,
           and
           the
           Wife
           of
           Iove
        
         
           Descended
           to
           thee
           in
           the
           Mirtle
           Grove
           ,
        
         
           In
           shining
           Chariots
           drawn
           by
           winged
           Clouds
           :
        
         
           Naked
           they
           came
           ,
           no
           Veil
           their
           Beauty
           shrouds
           ;
        
         
         
           But
           every
           Charm
           ,
           and
           Grace
           expos'd
           to
           view
           ,
        
         
           Left
           Heav'n
           to
           be
           survey'd
           ,
           and
           judg'd
           by
           you
           .
        
         
           To
           bribe
           thy
           voice
           ,
           Iuno
           wou'd
           Crowns
           bestow
           ,
        
         
           Pallas
           more
           gratefully
           wou'd
           dress
           thy
           Brow
        
         
           With
           Wreaths
           of
           Wit
           !
           Venus
           propos'd
           the
           choice
        
         
           Of
           all
           the
           fairest
           Greeks
           !
           and
           had
           thy
           Voice
           .
        
         
           Crowns
           ,
           and
           more
           glorious
           Wreaths
           thou
           didst
           despise
           ,
        
         
           And
           promis'd
           Beauty
           more
           than
           Empire
           prize
           !
        
         
           This
           when
           you
           told
           ,
           Gods
           !
           what
           a
           killing
           fear
        
         
           Did
           over
           all
           my
           shivering
           Limbs
           appear
           ?
        
         
           And
           I
           presag'd
           some
           ominous
           Change
           was
           near
           !
        
         
           The
           Blushes
           left
           my
           Cheeks
           ,
           from
           every
           part
        
         
           The
           Blood
           ran
           swift
           to
           guard
           my
           fainting
           heart
           .
        
         
           You
           in
           my
           Eys
           the
           glimmering
           Light
           perceiv'd
        
         
           Of
           parting
           Life
           ,
           and
           on
           my
           pale
           Lips
           breath'd
        
         
           Such
           Vows
           ,
           as
           all
           my
           Terrors
           undeceiv'd
           .
        
         
           But
           soon
           the
           envying
           Gods
           disturb'd
           our
           Joys
           ,
        
         
         
           Declare
           thee
           Great
           !
           and
           all
           my
           Bliss
           destroys
           !
        
         
           And
           now
           the
           Fleet
           is
           Anchor'd
           in
           the
           Bay
        
         
           That
           must
           to
           Troy
           the
           glorious
           Youth
           convey
           .
        
         
           Heavens
           !
           how
           you
           look'd
           !
           and
           what
           a
           Godlike
           Grace
        
         
           At
           their
           first
           Homage
           beautify'd
           your
           Face
           !
        
         
           Yet
           this
           no
           Wonder
           ,
           or
           Amazement
           brought
           ,
        
         
           You
           still
           a
           Monarch
           were
           in
           Soul
           ,
           and
           thought
           !
        
         
           Nor
           cou'd
           I
           tell
           which
           most
           the
           Sight
           augments
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Joys
           of
           Pow'r
           ,
           or
           parting
           Discontents
           .
        
         
           You
           kist
           the
           Tears
           which
           down
           my
           Cheeks
           did
           glide
           ,
        
         
           And
           mingled
           yours
           with
           the
           ●oft
           falling
           Tide
           ,
        
         
           And
           'twixt
           your
           Sighs
           a
           thousand
           times
           you
           said
        
         
           Cease
           my
           Oenone
           !
           Cease
           my
           charming
           Maid
           !
        
         
           If
           Paris
           
             lives
             his
             Native
          
           Troy
           
             to
             see
          
           ,
        
         
           My
           lovely
           Nymph
           ,
           thou
           shalt
           a
           Princess
           be
           !
        
         
           But
           my
           Prophetick
           Fear
           no
           Faith
           allows
           ,
        
         
           My
           breaking
           Heart
           resisted
           all
           thy
           Vows
           .
        
         
         
           
             Ah
             must
             we
             part
          
           ,
           I
           cryd
           !
           
             those
             killing
             words
          
        
         
           No
           further
           Language
           to
           my
           Grief
           affords
           .
        
         
           Trembling
           ,
           I
           fell
           upon
           thy
           panting
           Breast
        
         
           Which
           was
           with
           equal
           Love
           ,
           and
           Grief
           opprest
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           sighs
           and
           looks
           ,
           all
           dying
           spoke
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           About
           thy
           Neck
           my
           feeble
           Arms
           I
           cast
           ,
        
         
           Not
           Vines
           ,
           nor
           Ivy
           circle
           Elms
           so
           fast
           .
        
         
           To
           stay
           ,
           what
           dear
           Excuses
           didst
           thou
           frame
           ,
        
         
           And
           fanciedst
           Tempests
           when
           the
           Seas
           were
           calm
           ?
        
         
           How
           oft
           the
           Winds
           contrary
           feign'd
           to
           be
           ,
        
         
           When
           they
           alas
           were
           only
           so
           to
           me
           !
        
         
           How
           oft
           new
           Vows
           of
           lasting
           Faith
           you
           swore
           ,
        
         
           And
           'twixt
           your
           Kisses
           all
           the
           old
           run
           o're
           ?
        
         
           But
           now
           the
           wisely
           Grave
           ,
           who
           Love
           despise
           ,
        
         
           (
           Themselves
           past
           hope
           )
           do
           busily
           advise
           ,
        
         
           Whisper
           Renown
           ,
           and
           Glory
           in
           thy
           Ear
           ,
        
         
           Language
           which
           Lovers
           fright
           ,
           and
           Swains
           ne're
           hear
           .
        
         
         
           For
           Troy
           they
           cry
           !
           these
           Shepherds
           Weeds
           lay
           down
           ,
        
         
           Change
           Crooks
           for
           Scepters
           !
           Garlands
           for
           a
           Crown
           !
        
         
           '
           But
           sure
           that
           Crown
           does
           far
           less
           easie
           sit
           ,
        
         
           '
           Than
           Wreaths
           of
           Flow'rs
           ,
           less
           innocent
           &
           sweet
           .
        
         
           '
           Nor
           can
           thy
           Beds
           of
           State
           so
           grateful
           be
           ,
        
         
           '
           As
           those
           of
           Moss
           ,
           &
           new
           fall'n
           Leaves
           with
           me
           !
        
         
           Now
           tow'rds
           the
           Beach
           we
           go
           ,
           &
           all
           the
           way
        
         
           The
           Groves
           ,
           the
           Fern
           ,
           dark
           Woods
           ,
           and
           Springs
           survey
           ;
        
         
           That
           were
           so
           often
           conscious
           to
           the
           Rites
        
         
           Of
           sacred
           Love
           ,
           in
           our
           dear
           stol'n
           Delights
           .
        
         
           With
           Eyes
           all
           languishing
           ,
           each
           place
           you
           view
           ,
        
         
           And
           sighing
           cry
           ,
           
             Adieu
             ,
             dear
             Shades
             ,
             Adieu
             !
          
        
         
           Then
           't
           was
           thy
           Soul
           e'en
           doubted
           which
           to
           do
           ,
        
         
           Refuse
           a
           Crown
           ,
           or
           those
           dear
           Shades
           forgoe
           !
        
         
           Glory
           and
           Love
           !
           the
           great
           dispute
           persu'd
           ,
        
         
           But
           the
           false
           Idol
           soon
           the
           God
           subdu'd
           .
        
         
         
           And
           now
           on
           Board
           you
           go
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           Sails
        
         
           Are
           loosned
           ,
           to
           receive
           the
           flying
           Gales
           .
        
         
           Whilst
           I
           half
           dead
           on
           the
           forsaken
           Strand
           ,
        
         
           Beheld
           thee
           sighing
           on
           the
           Deck
           to
           stand
           ,
        
         
           Wafting
           a
           thousand
           Kisses
           from
           thy
           Hand
           .
        
         
           And
           whilst
           I
           cou'd
           the
           lessening
           Vessel
           see
           ,
        
         
           I
           gaz'd
           ,
           and
           sent
           a
           thousand
           Sighs
           to
           thee
           !
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           Sea-born
           Neriads
           implor●
        
         
           Quick
           to
           return
           thee
           to
           our
           Rustick
           shore
           .
        
         
           Now
           like
           a
           Ghost
           I
           glide
           through
           ev'ry
           Grove
           ,
        
         
           Silent
           ,
           and
           sad
           as
           Death
           ,
           about
           I
           rove
           ,
        
         
           And
           visit
           all
           our
           Treasuries
           of
           Love
           !
        
         
           This
           Shade
           th'
           account
           of
           thousand
           Joys
           does
           hide
           ,
        
         
           As
           many
           more
           this
           murmuring
           Rivers
           side
           ,
        
         
           Where
           the
           dear
           Grass
           ,
           as
           sacred
           ,
           does
           retain
        
         
           The
           print
           ,
           where
           thee
           and
           I
           so
           oft
           have
           lain
           .
        
         
           Upon
           this
           Oak
           thy
           Pipe
           ,
           and
           Garland's
           plac'd
           ,
        
         
           That
           Sycamore
           is
           with
           thy
           Sheephook
           grac'●●
        
         
         
           Here
           feed
           thy
           Flocks
           ,
           once
           lov'd
           though
           now
           thy
           scorh
           ;
        
         
           Like
           me
           forsaken
           ,
           and
           like
           me
           forlorn
           !
        
         
           A
           Rock
           there
           is
           ,
           from
           whence
           I
           cou'd
           survey
        
         
           From
           far
           the
           blewish
           Shore
           ,
           and
           distant
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           hanging
           top
           with
           toy1
           I
           climb
           each
           day
           ,
        
         
           With
           greedy
           View
           the
           prospect
           I
           run
           o're
           ,
        
         
           To
           see
           what
           wish't
           for
           Ships
           approach
           our
           shore
           .
        
         
           One
           day
           all
           hopeless
           on
           its
           point
           I
           stood
           ,
        
         
           And
           saw
           a
           Vessel
           bounding
           o're
           the
           Flood
           ,
        
         
           And
           as
           it
           nearer
           drew
           ,
           I
           cou'd
           discern
        
         
           Rich
           Purple
           Sayls
           ,
           Silk
           Cords
           ,
           and
           Golden
           Stern
           ;
        
         
           Upon
           the
           Deck
           a
           Canopy
           was
           spread
        
         
           Of
           Antique
           work
           in
           Gold
           and
           Silver
           made
           .
        
         
           Which
           mixt
           with
           Sun-beams
           dazling
           Light
           display'd
           .
        
         
           But
           oh
           !
           beneath
           this
           glorious
           Scene
           of
           State
        
         
           (
           Curst
           be
           the
           sight
           )
           a
           fatal
           Beauty
           sate
           .
        
         
         
           And
           fondly
           you
           were
           on
           her
           Bosome
           laid
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           with
           your
           perjur'd
           Lips
           her
           Fingers
           plaid
           ;
        
         
           Wantonly
           curl'd
           and
           dally'd
           with
           that
           hair
           ,
        
         
           Of
           which
           ,
           as
           sacred
           Charms
           ,
           I
           Bracelets
           wear
           .
        
         
           Oh!
           hadst
           thou
           seen
           me
           then
           in
           that
           mad
           state
        
         
           So
           ruin'd
           ,
           so
           design'd
           for
           Death
           and
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Fix't
           on
           a
           Rock
           ,
           whose
           horrid
           Precipice
        
         
           In
           hollow
           Murmurs
           wars
           with
           Angry
           Seas
           ;
        
         
           Whilst
           the
           bleak
           Winds
           alost
           my
           Garments
           bear
           ,
        
         
           Ruffling
           my
           careless
           and
           dishevel'd
           hair
           ,
        
         
           I
           look't
           like
           the
           sad
           Statue
           of
           Despair
           .
        
         
           With
           out-stretch'd
           voice
           I
           cry'd
           ,
           and
           all
           around
        
         
           The
           Rocks
           and
           Hills
           my
           dire
           complaints
           resound
           ,
        
         
           I
           rend
           my
           Garments
           ,
           tear
           my
           flattering
           Face
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           false
           deluding
           Charms
           my
           Ruin
           was
           .
        
         
           Mad
           as
           the
           Seas
           in
           Storms
           ,
           I
           breath
           Despair
           ,
        
         
           Or
           Winds
           let
           loose
           in
           unresisting
           Air.
        
         
           Raging
           and
           Frantick
           through
           the
           Woods
           I
           fly
           ,
        
         
         
           And
           Paris
           !
           lovely
           ,
           faithless
           ,
           Paris
           ;
           cry
           .
        
         
           But
           when
           the
           Ecchos
           sound
           thy
           Name
           again
           .
        
         
           I
           change
           to
           new
           variety
           of
           Pain
           .
        
         
           For
           that
           dear
           Name
           such
           tenderness
           inspires
           ,
        
         
           As
           turns
           all
           Passion
           to
           Loves
           softer
           Fires
           :
        
         
           With
           tears
           I
           fall
           to
           kind
           Complaints
           again
           ,
        
         
           So
           Tempests
           are
           allay'd
           by
           Show'rs
           of
           Rain
           .
        
         
           Say
           ,
           lovely
           Youth
           ,
           why
           wou'dst
           thou
           thus
           betray
        
         
           My
           easie
           Faith
           ,
           and
           lead
           my
           heart
           astray
           ?
        
         
           It
           might
           some
           humble
           Shepherds
           Choice
           have
           been
           ,
        
         
           Had
           I
           that
           Tongue
           ne're
           heard
           ,
           those
           Eyes
           ne're
           seen
           .
        
         
           And
           in
           some
           homely
           Cott
           ,
           in
           low
           Repose
           ,
        
         
           Liv'd
           undisturb'd
           with
           broken
           Vows
           and
           Oaths
           :
        
         
           All
           day
           by
           shaded
           Springs
           my
           Flocks
           have
           kept
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           some
           honest
           Arms
           at
           Night
           have
           slept
           .
        
         
           Then
           unupbraided
           with
           my
           wrongs
           thou
           'dst
           been
        
         
           Safe
           in
           the
           Joys
           of
           the
           fair
           Grecian
           Queen●
        
         
         
           What
           Stars
           do
           rule
           the
           Great
           ?
           no
           sooner
           you
        
         
           Became
           a
           Prince
           ,
           but
           you
           were
           Perjur'd
           too
           .
        
         
           Are
           Crowns
           and
           Falshoods
           then
           consistant
           things
           ?
        
         
           And
           must
           they
           all
           be
           faithless
           who
           are
           Kings
           ?
        
         
           The
           Gods
           be
           prais'd
           that
           I
           was
           humbly
           born
           ,
        
         
           Even
           tho'
           it
           renders
           me
           my
           Paris
           scorn
           .
        
         
           And
           I
           had
           rather
           this
           way
           wretched
           prove
           ,
        
         
           Than
           be
           a
           Queen
           and
           faithless
           in
           my
           Love.
        
         
           Not
           my
           fair
           Rival
           wou'd
           I
           wish
           to
           be
           ,
        
         
           To
           come
           prophan'd
           by
           others
           Joys
           to
           thee
           .
        
         
           Aspotless
           Maid
           into
           thy
           Arms
           I
           brought
           ,
        
         
           Untouch't
           in
           Fame
           ,
           ev'n
           Innocent
           in
           thought
           .
        
         
           Whilst
           she
           with
           Love
           has
           treated
           many
           a
           Guest
           ,
        
         
           And
           brings
           thee
           but
           the
           leavings
           of
           a
           Feast
           :
        
         
           With
           Theseus
           from
           her
           Country
           made
           Escape
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           she
           miscall'd
           the
           willing
           Flight
           ,
           a
           Rape
           .
        
         
           So
           now
           from
           Atreus
           Son
           ,
           with
           thee
           is
           fled
           ,
        
         
           And
           still
           the
           Rape
           hides
           the
           Adult
           '
           rous
           Deed.
        
         
         
           And
           is
           it
           thus
           Great
           Ladies
           keep
           intire
        
         
           That
           Vertue
           they
           so
           boast
           ,
           and
           you
           admire
           ?
        
         
           Is
           this
           a
           Trick
           of
           Courts
           ,
           can
           Ravishment
        
         
           Serve
           for
           a
           poor
           Evasion
           of
           Consent
           ?
        
         
           Hard
           shift
           to
           save
           that
           Honour
           priz'd
           so
           high
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           the
           mean
           Fraud's
           the
           greater
           Infamy
           .
        
         
           How
           much
           more
           happy
           are
           we
           Rural
           Maids
           ,
        
         
           Who
           know
           no
           other
           Palaces
           than
           Shades
           ?
        
         
           Who
           want
           no
           Titles
           to
           enslave
           the
           Croud
           ,
        
         
           Least
           they
           shou'd
           babble
           all
           our
           Crimes
           aloud
           .
        
         
           No
           Arts
           our
           good
           to
           show
           ,
           our
           Ills
           to
           hide
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           know
           to
           cover
           faults
           of
           Love
           with
           Pride
           .
        
         
           I
           lov'd
           ,
           and
           all
           Loves
           Dictates
           did
           persue
           ,
        
         
           And
           never
           thought
           it
           cou'd
           be
           Sin
           with
           you
           .
        
         
           To
           Gods
           ,
           and
           Men
           ,
           I
           did
           my
           Love
           proclaim
        
         
           For
           one
           soft
           hour
           with
           thee
           ,
           my
           charming
           Swain
           ,
        
         
           Wou'd
           Recompence
           an
           Age
           to
           come
           of
           Shame
           ,
        
         
           Cou'd
           it
           as
           well
           but
           satisfie
           my
           Fame
           .
        
         
         
           But
           oh
           !
           those
           tender
           hours
           are
           fled
           and
           lost
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           no
           more
           of
           Fame
           ,
           or
           Thee
           can
           boast
           !
        
         
           'T
           was
           thou
           wert
           Honour
           ,
           Glory
           ,
           all
           to
           me
           :
        
         
           Till
           Swains
           had
           learn'd
           the
           Vice
           of
           Perjury
           ,
        
         
           No
           yielding
           Maids
           were
           charg'd
           with
           Infamy
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           false
           and
           broken
           Vows
           make
           Love
           a
           Sin
           ,
        
         
           Hadst
           thou
           been
           true
           ,
           We
           innocent
           had
           been
           .
        
         
           But
           thou
           less
           faith
           than
           Autumn
           leaves
           do'st
           show
           ,
        
         
           Which
           ev'ry
           Blast
           bears
           from
           their
           native
           Bough
           .
        
         
           Less
           Weight
           ,
           less
           Constancy
           ,
           in
           thee
           is
           born
        
         
           Than
           in
           the
           slender
           mildew'd
           Ears
           of
           Corn.
        
         
           Oft
           when
           you
           Garlands
           wove
           to
           deck
           my
           hair
           ,
        
         
           Where
           mystick
           Pinks
           ,
           &
           Dazies
           mingled
           were
           ,
        
         
           You
           swore
           't
           was
           ●itter
           Diadems
           to
           bear
           :
        
         
           And
           when
           with
           eager
           Kisses
           prest
           my
           hand
           ,
        
         
           Have
           said
           ,
           
             How
             well
             a
             Scepter
             '
             two●'d
             command
             !
          
        
         
         
           And
           if
           I
           danc't
           upon
           the
           Flow'ry
           Green
           ,
        
         
           Wi●h
           charming
           ,
           wishing
           Eyes
           survey
           my
           Miene
           ,
        
         
           And
           cry
           !
           the
           God
           's
           design'd
           thee
           for
           a
           Queen
           !
        
         
           Why
           then
           for
           Helen
           dost
           thou
           me
           forsake
           ?
        
         
           Can
           a
           poor
           empty
           Name
           such
           difference
           make
           ?
        
         
           Besides
           ,
           if
           Love
           can
           be
           a
           Sin
           thine
           's
           one
           ,
        
         
           Since
           Helen
           does
           to
           Menelaus
           belong
           .
        
         
           Be
           Just
           ,
           restore
           her
           back
           ,
           She
           's
           none
           of
           thine
           ,
        
         
           And
           ,
           charming
           Paris
           ,
           thou
           art
           only
           mine
           .
        
         
           ●Tis
           no
           Ambitious
           Flame
           that
           makes
           me
           sue
        
         
           To
           be
           again
           belov'd
           ,
           and
           blest
           with
           you
           ;
        
         
           No
           vain
           desire
           of
           being
           Ally'd
           t'
           a
           King
           ,
        
         
           Love
           is
           the
           only
           Dowry
           I
           can
           bring
           ,
        
         
           And
           tender
           Love
           is
           all
           I
           ask
           again
           .
        
         
           Whilst
           on
           her
           dang'rous
           Smiles
           fierce
           War
           must
           wait
        
         
           With
           Fire
           and
           Vengeance
           at
           your
           Palace
           gate
           ,
        
         
         
           Rouze
           your
           soft
           Slumbers
           with
           their
           rough
           Alarms
           ,
        
         
           And
           rudely
           snatch
           you
           from
           her
           faithless
           Arms
           :
        
         
           Turn
           then
           ●air
           Fugitive
           ,
           e're
           t
           is
           too
           late
           ,
        
         
           E're
           thy
           mistaken
           Love
           procures
           thy
           Fate
           ;
        
         
           E're
           a
           wrong'd
           Husband
           dos
           thy
           Death
           design
           ,
        
         
           And
           pierce
           that
           dear
           ,
           that
           faithless
           Heart
           of
           thine
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           PARIS
           TO
           HELENA
           .
        
         
           BY
           Mr.
           
             RICHARD
             DVKE
          
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Paris
             having
             sail'd
             to
             Sparta
             for
             the
             obtaining
             of
             Helen
             ,
             whom
             Venus
             had
             promised
             him
             as
             the
             reward
             of
             his
             adjudging
             the
             prize
             of
             Beauty
             to
             her
             ,
             was
             nobly
             there
             entertain'd
             by
             
               Menelaus
               ,
               Helens
            
             Husband
             ;
             but
             he
             being
             call'd
             away
             to
             Crete
             ,
             to
             take
             possession
             of
             what
             was
             left
             him
             by
             his
             Grandfather
             Atreus
             ,
             commends
             his
             Guest
             to
             the
             care
             of
             his
             Wife
             .
             In
             his
             absence
             Paris
             courts
             her
             ,
             and
             writes
             to
             her
             the
             following
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           ALL
           health
           ,
           fair
           Nymph
           ,
           thy
           Paris
           sends
           to
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Tho
           You
           ,
           and
           only
           You
           can
           give
           it
           me
           ▪
        
         
         
           Shall
           I
           then
           speak
           ?
           or
           is
           it
           needless
           grown
        
         
           To
           tell
           a
           Passion
           that
           it self
           has
           shown
           ?
        
         
           Do's
           not
           my
           Love
           it self
           too
           open
           lay
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           I
           think
           in
           all
           I
           do
           betray
           ?
        
         
           If
           not
           ,
           oh
           !
           may
           it
           still
           in
           secret
           lye
           ,
        
         
           Till
           time
           with
           our
           kind
           wishes
           shall
           comply
           ,
        
         
           Till
           all
           our
           joys
           may
           to
           us
           come
           sincere
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           loose
           their
           price
           by
           the
           allay
           of
           fear
           .
        
         
           In
           vain
           I
           strive
           ;
           who
           can
           that
           fire
           conceal
        
         
           Which
           do's
           it self
           by
           its
           own
           Light
           reveal
           ?
        
         
           But
           if
           you
           needs
           would
           hear
           my
           trembling
           tongue
        
         
           Speak
           what
           my
           actions
           have
           declar'd
           so
           long
           ,
        
         
           I
           Love
           you
           've
           there
           the
           word
           that
           do's
           impart
        
         
           The
           truest
           Message
           from
           my
           bleeding
           heart
           .
        
         
           Forgive
           me
           ,
           Madam
           ,
           that
           I
           thus
           confess
        
         
           To
           you
           ,
           my
           fair
           Physician
           ,
           my
           Disease
           ,
        
         
           And
           wi●h
           such
           looks
           this
           Suppliant
           paper
           grace
           ,
        
         
           As
           best
           become
           the
           Beauties
           of
           that
           face
           .
        
         
         
           May
           that
           smooth
           brow
           no
           angry
           wrinkle
           wear
           ,
        
         
           But
           be
           your
           looks
           as
           kind
           as
           they
           are
           fair
           .
        
         
           Some
           pleasure
           't
           is
           to
           think
           these
           Lines
           shall
           find
        
         
           An
           Entertainment
           at
           your
           hands
           so
           kind
           ,
        
         
           For
           this
           creates
           a
           hope
           that
           I
           too
           may
        
         
           Receiv'd
           by
           You
           as
           happy
           be
           as
           they
           .
        
         
           Ah!
           may
           that
           hope
           be
           true
           !
           nor
           I
           complain
        
         
           That
           Venus
           promis'd
           you
           to
           me
           in
           vain
           .
        
         
           For
           know
           ,
           lest
           you
           through
           Ignorance
           offend
        
         
           The
           Gods
           ,
           't
           is
           Heav'n
           that
           me
           does
           hither
           send
           .
        
         
           None
           of
           the
           meanest
           of
           the
           Powers
           Divine
        
         
           That
           first
           inspir'd
           ,
           still
           favours
           my
           design
           .
        
         
           Great
           is
           the
           prize
           I
           seek
           ,
           I
           must
           confess
           ,
        
         
           But
           neither
           is
           my
           due
           or
           merit
           less
           :
        
         
           Venus
           has
           promis'd
           she
           would
           you
           assign
           ,
        
         
           Fair
           as
           her self
           ,
           to
           be
           for
           ever
           mine
           .
        
         
           Guided
           by
           her
           ,
           my
           Troy
           I
           left
           for
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           fear'd
           the
           dangers
           of
           the
           faithless
           Sea
           ,
        
         
         
           She
           with
           a
           kind
           and
           an
           auspicious
           gale
        
         
           Drove
           the
           good
           Ship
           ,
           and
           stretch't
           out
           ev'ry
           Sail.
        
         
           For
           she
           who
           sprung
           out
           of
           the
           teeming
           deep
           ,
        
         
           Still
           o're
           the
           Main
           do's
           her
           wide
           Empire
           keep
           .
        
         
           Still
           may
           she
           keep
           it
           ,
           and
           as
           she
           with
           ease
        
         
           Allays
           the
           wrath
           of
           the
           most
           angry
           Seas
           ,
        
         
           So
           may
           she
           give
           my
           stormy
           mind
           some
           rest
           ,
        
         
           And
           calm
           the
           raging
           Tempest
           of
           my
           breast
           ,
        
         
           And
           bring
           home
           all
           my
           sighs
           and
           all
           my
           vowes
        
         
           To
           their
           wisht
           harbour
           and
           desir'd
           repose
           .
        
         
           Hither
           my
           ●lames
           I
           brought
           ,
           not
           ●ound'em
           here
           ,
        
         
           I
           my
           whole
           course
           by
           their
           kind
           Light
           did
           steer
           .
        
         
           For
           I
           by
           no
           mistake
           or
           storm
           was
           tost
        
         
           Against
           my
           will
           upon
           this
           happy
           Coast.
        
         
           Nor
           as
           a
           Merchant
           did
           I
           plow
           the
           Main
        
         
           To
           venture
           Life
           ,
           like
           sordid
           Fools
           ,
           for
           gain
           .
        
         
           No
           ;
           may
           the
           Gods
           preserve
           my
           present
           store
           ,
        
         
           And
           only
           give
           me
           you
           to
           make
           it
           more
           .
        
         
         
           Nor
           to
           admire
           the
           place
           came
           I
           so
           far
           ;
        
         
           I
           have
           Towns
           richer
           than
           your
           Cities
           are
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           you
           I
           seek
           ,
           to
           me
           from
           Venus
           due
           ,
        
         
           You
           were
           my
           wish
           ,
           before
           your
           Charms
           I
           knew
           ▪
        
         
           Bright
           Images
           of
           you
           my
           mind
           did
           draw
        
         
           Long
           e're
           my
           Eyes
           the
           lovely
           Object
           saw
           .
        
         
           Nor
           wonder
           that
           with
           the
           swift
           winged
           dart
        
         
           At
           such
           a
           distance
           you
           could
           wound
           my
           heart
           :
        
         
           So
           Fate
           ordain'd
           ,
           and
           lest
           you
           fight
           with
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Hear
           and
           believe
           the
           truth
           I
           shall
           relate
           .
        
         
           Now
           in
           my
           Mothers
           Womb
           shut
           up
           I
           lay
           ,
        
         
           Her
           fatal
           burthen
           longing
           for
           the
           day
           ,
        
         
           When
           she
           in
           a
           mysterious
           Dream
           was
           told
           ▪
        
         
           Her
           teeming
           Womb
           a
           burning
           Torch
           did
           hold
           ;
        
         
           Frighted
           she
           rises
           ,
           and
           her
           Vision
           she
        
         
           To
           Priam
           tells
           ,
           and
           to
           his
           Prophets
           He
           ;
        
         
           They
           sing
           that
           I
           all
           Troy
           should
           set
           on
           fire
           ,
        
         
           But
           sure
           Fate
           meant
           the
           flames
           of
           my
           desire
           .
        
         
         
           For
           fear
           of
           this
           among
           the
           Swains
           expos'd
           ,
        
         
           My
           native
           greatness
           every
           thing
           disclos'd
           .
        
         
           Beauty
           and
           strength
           and
           courage
           joyn'd
           in
           one
           ,
        
         
           Through
           all
           disguise
           spoke
           me
           a
           Monarchs
           Son.
        
         
           A
           place
           there
           is
           in
           
           Ida's
           thickest
           Grove
        
         
           With
           Oaks
           and
           Firr-trees
           shaded
           all
           above
           ,
        
         
           The
           grass
           here
           grows
           untoucht
           by
           bleating
           flocks
           ,
        
         
           Or
           Mountain
           Goat
           ,
           or
           the
           laborious
           Ox
           ,
        
         
           From
           hence
           Troys
           Tow'rs
           magnificence
           &
           pride
           ,
        
         
           Leaning
           against
           an
           aged
           Oak
           ,
           I
           spy'd
           .
        
         
           When
           straight
           methought
           I
           heard
           the
           trembling
           ground
        
         
           With
           the
           strange
           noise
           of
           trampling
           feet
           refound
           .
        
         
           In
           the
           same
           instant
           
           Iove's
           great
           Messenger
           ,
        
         
           On
           all
           his
           Wings
           born
           through
           the
           yielding
           Air
           ,
        
         
           Lighting
           before
           my
           wondring
           Eyes
           did
           stand
           ,
        
         
           His
           golden
           Rod
           shone
           in
           his
           sacred
           Hand
           :
        
         
           With
           him
           three
           charming
           Goddesses
           there
           came
           ,
        
         
           Iuno
           and
           Pallas
           ,
           and
           the
           Cyprian
           Dame.
        
         
         
           With
           an
           unusual
           fear
           I
           stood
           amaz'd
           ,
        
         
           Till
           thus
           the
           God
           my
           sinking
           Courage
           rais'd
           ;
        
         
           Fear
           not
           ;
           Thou
           art
           Jove's
           substitute
           below
           ,
        
         
           The
           prize
           of
           heavenly
           beauty
           to
           bestow
           ;
        
         
           Contending
           Goddesses
           appeal
           to
           you
           ,
        
         
           
             Decide
             their
             strife
          
           ;
           He
           spake
           ,
           and
           up
           he
           flew
           .
        
         
           Then
           bolder
           grown
           ,
           I
           throw
           my
           fears
           away
           ,
        
         
           And
           every
           one
           with
           curious
           eyes
           survey
           ,
        
         
           Each
           of
           'em
           merited
           the
           Victory
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           their
           doubtful
           Judge
           was
           griev'd
           to
           see
        
         
           That
           one
           must
           have
           it
           ,
           when
           deserv'd
           by
           three
           .
        
         
           But
           yet
           that
           one
           there
           was
           which
           most
           prevail'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           more
           pow'rful
           Charms
           my
           heart
           assail'd
           .
        
         
           Ah!
           would
           you
           know
           who
           thus
           my
           breast
           could
           move
           ?
        
         
           Who
           could
           it
           be
           but
           the
           fair
           Que●n
           of
           Love
           ?
        
         
           With
           mighty
           Bribes
           they
           all
           for
           Conquest
           strive
           ,
        
         
           Iuno
           will
           Empires
           ,
           Pallas
           Valour
           give
           ,
        
         
         
           Whilst
           I
           stand
           doubting
           which
           I
           should
           prefer
           ,
        
         
           Empire
           's
           soft
           ease
           ,
           or
           glorious
           toyls
           of
           War
           ;
        
         
           But
           Venus
           gently
           smild
           ,
           and
           thus
           she
           spake
           ,
        
         
           They
           're
           dangerous
           gifts
           ,
           O
           do
           not
           ,
           do
           not
           take
           !
        
         
           I
           'le
           make
           Thee
           Love's
           immortal
           pleasures
           know
           ,
        
         
           And
           Ioyes
           that
           in
           full
           tides
           for
           ever
           flow
           .
        
         
           For
           ,
           if
           you
           judge
           the
           Conquest
           to
           be
           mine
           ,
        
         
           Faire
           Leda's
           fairer
           Daughter
           shall
           be
           thine
           .
        
         
           She
           spake
           ;
           and
           I
           gave
           her
           the
           conquest
           ,
           due
        
         
           Both
           to
           her
           Beauty
           and
           her
           gift
           of
           You.
        
         
           Mean
           while
           (
           my
           angry
           Stars
           more
           gentle
           grown
           )
        
         
           I
           am
           acknowledg'd
           Royal
           
           Priam's
           Son
           ,
        
         
           All
           the
           glad
           Court
           all
           Troy
           does
           celebrate
        
         
           With
           a
           new
           Festival
           my
           change
           of
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           And
           as
           I
           now
           languish
           and
           dye
           for
           thee
           ,
        
         
           So
           did
           the
           Beauties
           of
           all
           Troy
           for
           me
           .
        
         
           You
           in
           full
           pow'r
           over
           a
           heart
           do
           reign
           ,
        
         
           For
           which
           a
           thousand
           Virgins
           sigh'd
           in
           vain
           :
        
         
         
           Nor
           did
           Queens
           only
           fly
           to
           my
           embrace
           ,
        
         
           But
           Nymphs
           of
           form
           ,
           divine
           ,
           and
           heavenly
           race
           :
        
         
           I
           all
           their
           Loves
           with
           cold
           disdain
           represt
           ,
        
         
           Since
           hopes
           of
           you
           first
           fir'd
           my
           longing
           breast
           .
        
         
           Your
           charming
           form
           all
           day
           my
           fancy
           drew
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           night
           came
           ,
           my
           dreams
           were
           all
           of
           you
           .
        
         
           What
           pleasures
           then
           must
           you
           your self
           impart
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           shadows
           only
           so
           surpriz'd
           my
           heart
           ?
        
         
           And
           oh
           !
           how
           did
           I
           burn
           approaching
           nigh'er
           ,
        
         
           That
           was
           so
           scorch'd
           by
           so
           remote
           a
           fire
           !
        
         
           For
           now
           no
           longer
           could
           my
           hopes
           resrain
        
         
           From
           seeking
           their
           wisht
           Object
           through
           the
           main
           .
        
         
           I
           fell
           the
           stately
           Pine
           ,
           and
           every
           Tree
        
         
           That
           best
           was
           fit
           to
           cut
           the
           yielding
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           Fetcht
           from
           Gargarian
           Hills
           tall
           Firs
           I
           cleave
           ,
        
         
           And
           Ida
           naked
           to
           the
           Winds
           I
           leave
           ,
        
         
           Stiff
           Okes
           I
           bend
           ,
           and
           solid
           Planks
           I
           form
           ,
        
         
           And
           every
           Ship
           with
           well-knit
           rib●
           I
           arm
           ,
        
         
         
           To
           the
           tall
           Mast
           I
           Sails
           and
           Streamers
           joyn
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           gay
           Poops
           with
           painted
           Gods
           do
           shine
           .
        
         
           But
           on
           my
           Ship
           does
           only
           Venus
           stand
        
         
           With
           little
           Cupid
           smiling
           in
           her
           hand
           ,
        
         
           Guide
           of
           the
           way
           she
           did
           her self
           command
           .
        
         
           My
           Fleet
           thus
           rigg'd
           ,
           and
           all
           my
           thoughts
           on
           thee
        
         
           I
           long
           to
           plow
           the
           vast
           Aegean
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           My
           anxious
           Parents
           my
           desires
           withstand
           ,
        
         
           And
           both
           with
           pious
           tears
           my
           stay
           command
           :
        
         
           Cassandra
           too
           ,
           with
           loose
           dishevel'd
           hair
           ,
        
         
           Just
           as
           our
           hasty
           Ships
           to
           sail
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           Full
           of
           Prophetick
           fury
           cries
           aloud
           ,
        
         
           O
           whether
           steers
           my
           Brother
           through
           the
           flood
           ?
        
         
           Little
           ,
           ah
           !
           little
           dost
           thou
           know
           or
           heed
        
         
           To
           what
           a
           raging
           fire
           these
           waters
           lead
           .
        
         
           True
           were
           her
           fears
           ,
           and
           in
           my
           breast
           I
           feel
        
         
           The
           scorching
           flames
           her
           Fury
           did
           foretell
           .
        
         
         
           Yet
           out
           I
           sail
           ,
           and
           favour'd
           by
           the
           Wind
           ,
        
         
           On
           your
           blest
           Shore
           my
           wisht
           for
           haven
           find
           ;
        
         
           Your
           Husband
           then
           ,
           so
           Heav'n
           ,
           kind
           Heav'n
           ordains
           ,
        
         
           In
           his
           own
           house
           his
           Rival
           entertains
           .
        
         
           Shews
           me
           whate're
           in
           Sparta
           do's
           delight
        
         
           The
           curious
           Travellers
           enquiring
           sight
           :
        
         
           But
           I
           ,
           who
           only
           long'd
           to
           gaze
           on
           you
           ,
        
         
           Could
           taste
           no
           pleasure
           in
           the
           idle
           show
           .
        
         
           But
           at
           thy
           sight
           ;
           oh
           !
           where
           was
           then
           my
           heart
           !
        
         
           Out
           from
           my
           breast
           it
           gave
           a
           sudden
           start
           ,
        
         
           Sprung
           forth
           and
           met
           half
           way
           the
           fatal
           dart
           .
        
         
           Such
           or
           less
           charming
           was
           the
           Queen
           of
           Love
           ,
        
         
           When
           with
           her
           rival
           Goddesses
           she
           strove
           .
        
         
           But
           ,
           Fairest
           ,
           hadst
           You
           came
           among
           the
           three
           ,
        
         
           Even
           she
           ,
           the
           prize
           must
           have
           resign'd
           to
           thee
           .
        
         
           Your
           Beauty
           is
           the
           only
           Theme
           of
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           world
           sounds
           with
           fair
           Helens
           name
        
         
         
           Nor
           lives
           there
           she
           whom
           pride
           it self
           can
           raise
        
         
           To
           claim
           with
           you
           an
           equal
           share
           of
           praise
           :
        
         
           Do
           I
           speak
           false
           ?
           rather
           Report
           do's
           so
           ,
        
         
           Detracting
           from
           you
           in
           a
           praise
           too
           low
           .
        
         
           More
           here
           I
           find
           than
           that
           could
           ever
           tell
           ,
        
         
           So
           much
           your
           Beauty
           does
           your
           Fame
           excel
           .
        
         
           Well
           then
           might
           Theseus
           ,
           he
           who
           all
           things
           knew
           ,
        
         
           Think
           none
           was
           worthy
           of
           his
           Theft
           but
           you
           ;
        
         
           I
           this
           bold
           theft
           admire
           ;
           but
           wonder
           more
        
         
           He
           ever
           would
           so
           dear
           a
           prize
           restore
           :
        
         
           Ah!
           would
           these
           hands
           have
           ever
           let
           you
           go
           ?
        
         
           Or
           could
           I
           live
           and
           be
           divorc't
           from
           you
           ?
        
         
           No
           ,
           sooner
           I
           with
           life
           it self
           could
           part
           ,
        
         
           Than
           e're
           see
           you
           torn
           from
           my
           bleeding
           heart
           .
        
         
           But
           could
           I
           do
           as
           he
           ,
           and
           give
           you
           back
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           sure
           some
           taste
           of
           Love
           I
           first
           would
           take
           ,
        
         
           Would
           first
           in
           all
           your
           blooming
           excellence
        
         
           And
           Virgin
           sweets
           feast
           my
           luxurious
           Sense
           ;
        
         
         
           Or
           if
           you
           would
           not
           let
           that
           treasure
           go
           ,
        
         
           Kisses
           at
           least
           you
           should
           ,
           you
           would
           bestow
           ,
        
         
           And
           let
           me
           smell
           the
           slow'r
           as
           it
           did
           grow
           .
        
         
           Come
           then
           into
           my
           longing
           arm●
           ,
           and
           try
        
         
           My
           lasting
           ,
           fixt
           ,
           Eternal
           constancy
           ,
        
         
           Which
           never
           till
           my
           funeral
           pile
           shall
           wast
           ;
        
         
           My
           present
           fire
           shall
           mingle
           with
           my
           last
           .
        
         
           Scepters
           and
           Crowns
           for
           you
           I
           did
           disdain
           ,
        
         
           With
           which
           great
           Iuno
           tempted
           me
           in
           vain
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           bright
           Pallas
           did
           her
           bribes
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           One
           soft
           embrace
           from
           you
           I
           did
           prefer
        
         
           To
           Courage
           ,
           Strength
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           Pomp
           of
           War.
        
         
           Nor
           shall
           I
           ever
           think
           my
           choice
           was
           ill
           ,
        
         
           My
           judgment
           's
           settled
           and
           approves
           it
           still
           ,
        
         
           Do
           you
           but
           grant
           my
           Hopes
           may
           prove
           as
           true
        
         
           As
           they
           were
           plac'd
           above
           all
           things
           but
           you
           .
        
         
           I
           am
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           you
           ,
           of
           Heavenly
           race
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           will
           my
           Birth
           your
           mighty
           line
           disgrace
           .
        
         
         
           Pleias
           and
           Iove
           ,
           our
           noble
           Lineage
           Head
           ,
        
         
           And
           them
           a
           race
           of
           God-like
           Kings
           Succeed
           .
        
         
           All
           
           Asia's
           Scepters
           to
           my
           Father
           bow
           ,
        
         
           And
           half
           the
           spacious
           East
           his
           power
           allow
           ;
        
         
           There
           you
           shall
           see
           the
           Houses
           rooft
           with
           Gold
           ,
        
         
           And
           Temples
           glorious
           as
           the
           Gods
           they
           hold
           .
        
         
           Troy
           you
           shall
           see
           ,
           and
           divine
           Walls
           admire
           ,
        
         
           Built
           to
           the
           consort
           of
           Apollo's
           Lyre
           .
        
         
           What
           need
           I
           the
           vast
           floud
           of
           people
           tell
        
         
           That
           over
           its
           wide
           banks
           do's
           almost
           swell
           ?
        
         
           You
           shall
           gay
           troops
           of
           Phrygian
           Matrons
           meet
           ,
        
         
           And
           Trojan
           Wives
           shining
           in
           every
           street
           .
        
         
           How
           often
           then
           will
           you
           your self
           confess
        
         
           The
           emptiness
           and
           poverty
           of
           Greece
           ?
        
         
           How
           often
           will
           you
           say
           ,
           one
           Palace
           there
        
         
           Contains
           more
           wealth
           than
           do
           whole
           Cities
           here
           ?
        
         
         
           I
           speak
           not
           this
           your
           Sparta
           to
           disgrace
           ,
        
         
           For
           wheresoe're
           your
           Life
           began
           its
           race
        
         
           Must
           be
           to
           me
           the
           happyest
           dearest
           place
           .
        
         
           Yet
           
           Sparta's
           poor
           ;
           and
           you
           that
           should
           be
           drest
        
         
           In
           all
           the
           riches
           of
           the
           shining
           East
           ,
        
         
           Should
           understand
           How
           ill
           that
           sordid
           place
        
         
           Suits
           with
           the
           beauty
           of
           your
           charming
           face
           .
        
         
           That
           face
           with
           costly
           dress
           and
           rich
           attire
        
         
           Should
           shine
           ,
           and
           make
           the
           gazing
           world
           admire
        
         
           When
           you
           the
           Habit
           of
           my
           Trojans
           see
           ,
        
         
           What
           ,
           think
           you
           ,
           must
           that
           of
           their
           Ladies
           be
           ?
        
         
           Oh!
           then
           be
           kind
           ,
           fair
           Spartan
           ,
           nor
           disdain
        
         
           A
           Trojan
           in
           your
           Bed
           to
           entertain
           .
        
         
           He
           was
           a
           Trojan
           ,
           and
           of
           our
           great
           line
           ,
        
         
           That
           to
           the
           Gods
           do's
           mix
           immortal
           Wine
           ;
        
         
           Tithonus
           too
           ,
           whom
           to
           her
           rosie
           bed
        
         
           The
           Goddess
           of
           the
           Morning
           blushing
           led
           ;
        
         
         
           So
           was
           Anchises
           of
           our
           Trojan
           race
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           Venus
           self
           to
           his
           desir'd
           embrace
        
         
           With
           all
           her
           train
           of
           little
           Loves
           did
           flie
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           His
           arms
           learnt
           for
           a
           while
           to
           die
           .
        
         
           Nor
           do
           I
           think
           that
           Menelaus
           can
        
         
           Compar'd
           with
           Me
           ,
           appear
           the
           greater
           Man.
        
         
           I
           'm
           sure
           my
           Father
           never
           made
           the
           Sun
        
         
           With
           frighted
           Steeds
           from
           His
           dire
           banquet
           run
           :
        
         
           No
           Grandfather
           of
           mine
           is
           staind
           with
           blood
           ,
        
         
           Or
           with
           his
           crime
           names
           the
           Myrtoan
           flood
           .
        
         
           None
           of
           our
           race
           do's
           in
           the
           Stygian
           Lake
        
         
           Sna●ch
           at
           those
           Apples
           he
           wants
           pow'r
           to
           take
           .
        
         
           But
           stay
           ;
           since
           You
           with
           such
           a
           Husband
           joyn
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Father
           Iove
           is
           forc't
           to
           grace
           his
           Line
           .
        
         
           He
           (
           Gods
           !
           )
           a
           wretch
           unworthy
           of
           those
           charms
           ,
        
         
           Do's
           all
           the
           Night
           lie
           melting
           in
           your
           armes
           ,
        
         
           Do's
           every
           minute
           to
           new
           joys
           improve
           ,
        
         
           And
           riots
           in
           the
           luscious
           sweets
           of
           Love.
        
         
         
           I
           but
           at
           Table
           one
           short
           view
           can
           gain
           ,
        
         
           And
           that
           too
           ,
           only
           to
           encrease
           my
           pain
           :
        
         
           O
           may
           such
           Feasts
           my
           worst
           of
           Foes
           attend
           ,
        
         
           As
           often
           I
           at
           your
           spread
           table
           find
           .
        
         
           I
           loath
           my
           food
           when
           my
           tormented
           eye
        
         
           Sees
           his
           rude
           hand
           in
           your
           soft
           bosom
           lie
           .
        
         
           I
           burst
           with
           envy
           when
           I
           him
           behold
        
         
           Your
           tender
           limbs
           in
           his
           loose
           robe
           enfold
           .
        
         
           When
           he
           your
           lips
           with
           melting
           kisses
           seald
           ,
        
         
           Before
           my
           eyes
           I
           the
           large
           goblet
           held
           .
        
         
           When
           you
           with
           him
           in
           strict
           embraces
           close
           ,
        
         
           My
           hated
           meat
           to
           my
           dry'd
           palat
           grows
           .
        
         
           Oft
           have
           I
           sigh'd
           ,
           then
           sigh'd
           again
           to
           see
        
         
           That
           sigh
           with
           scornful
           smiles
           repaid
           by
           thee
           .
        
         
           Oft
           I
           with
           Wine
           would
           quench
           my
           hot
           desire
           ,
        
         
           In
           vain
           ;
           for
           so
           I
           added
           fire
           to
           fire
           .
        
         
           Oft
           have
           I
           turnd
           away
           my
           Head
           in
           vain
        
         
           You
           straight
           recall'd
           my
           longing
           eyes
           again
           .
        
         
         
           What
           shall
           I
           do
           ?
           your
           sports
           with
           grief
           I
           see
           ,
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           a
           greater
           ,
           not
           to
           look
           on
           Thee
           .
        
         
           With
           all
           my
           Art
           I
           strive
           my
           flames
           to
           hide
           ,
        
         
           But
           through
           the
           thin
           disguise
           they
           are
           descry'd
           .
        
         
           Too
           well
           alas
           !
           my
           wounds
           to
           you
           are
           known
           .
        
         
           And
           O
           that
           they
           were
           so
           to
           you
           alone
           !
        
         
           How
           o●t
           turn
           I
           my
           weeping
           eyes
           away
        
         
           Lest
           he
           the
           cause
           should
           ask
           ,
           and
           I
           betray
           ?
        
         
           What
           tales
           of
           Love
           tell
           I
           when
           warm'd
           with
           Wine
           ,
        
         
           To
           your
           dear
           face
           applying
           every
           line
           ,
        
         
           In
           borrow'd
           names
           I
           my
           own
           passion
           shew
           ,
        
         
           They
           the
           feign'd
           Lovers
           are
           ,
           but
           I
           the
           true
           .
        
         
           Sometimes
           more
           freedom
           in
           discourse
           to
           gain
           ,
        
         
           For
           my
           excuse
           I
           drunkenness
           would
           feign
           .
        
         
           Once
           I
           remember
           your
           loose
           Garment
           fell
           ,
        
         
           And
           did
           your
           naked
           ,
           swelling
           breasts
           reveal
           ,
        
         
           Breasts
           white
           as
           snow
           ,
           or
           the
           false
           down
           of
           Iove
           ,
        
         
           When
           to
           your
           Mother
           the
           kind
           Swan
           made
           Love
           !
        
         
         
           Whil'st
           with
           the
           sight
           surpriz'd
           I
           gazing
           stand
           ,
        
         
           The
           cup
           I
           held
           ,
           dropt
           from
           my
           careless
           hand
           .
        
         
           If
           you
           your
           young
           Hermione
           but
           kiss
           ,
        
         
           Straight
           from
           her
           lips
           I
           snatch
           the
           envy'd
           bliss
           ▪
        
         
           Sometimes
           supinely
           laid
           ,
           Love
           Songs
           I
           sing
        
         
           And
           wa●●led
           kisses
           from
           my
           fingers
           fling
           .
        
         
           Your
           women
           to
           my
           aid
           I
           try
           to
           move
        
         
           With
           all
           the
           pow'rful
           Rhetorick
           of
           Love
           ,
        
         
           But
           they
           alas
           !
           speak
           nothing
           but
           despair
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           the
           midst
           leave
           my
           neglected
           prayer
           .
        
         
           Oh!
           that
           by
           some
           great
           prize
           you
           might
           be
           won
           ,
        
         
           And
           your
           possession
           might
           the
           Victor
           Crown
           :
        
         
           As
           Pelops
           his
           Hippodamia
           won
           ,
        
         
           Then
           had
           you
           seen
           what
           I
           for
           you
           had
           done
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           I
           've
           nothing
           left
           to
           do
           but
           pray
           ,
        
         
           And
           my self
           prostrate
           at
           your
           feet
           to
           lay
           .
        
         
         
           O
           Thou
           ,
           thy
           houses
           Glory
           ,
           brighter
           far
        
         
           Than
           thy
           two
           shining
           Brothers
           friendly
           Star
           !
        
         
           O
           worthy
           of
           the
           bed
           of
           Heav'ns
           great
           King
           ,
        
         
           If
           ought
           so
           fair
           but
           from
           himself
           could
           spring
           ▪
        
         
           Either
           with
           thee
           I
           back
           to
           Troy
           will
           fly
           ,
        
         
           Or
           here
           a
           wretched
           banisht
           Lover
           die
           .
        
         
           With
           no
           slight
           wound
           my
           tender
           breast
           dossmart
           ,
        
         
           My
           bones
           and
           marrow
           feel
           the
           piercing
           dart
           ;
        
         
           I
           find
           my
           Sister
           true
           did
           Prophesie
           ,
        
         
           I
           with
           a
           Heavenly
           Dart
           should
           wounded
           die
           ;
        
         
           Despise
           not
           then
           a
           Love
           by
           Heaven
           design'd
           ,
        
         
           So
           may
           the
           Gods
           still
           to
           your
           Vows
           be
           kind
           .
        
         
           Much
           I
           could
           say
           ,
           but
           what
           ,
           will
           best
           be
           known
        
         
           In
           your
           apartment
           when
           we
           are
           alone
           .
        
         
           You
           blush
           and
           with
           a
           superstitious
           dread
        
         
           Fear
           to
           defile
           the
           Sacred
           Marriage
           Bed
           :
        
         
           Ah!
           Helen
           ,
           can
           you
           then
           so
           simple
           be
           ,
        
         
           To
           think
           such
           Beauty
           can
           from
           faults
           be
           free
           ?
        
         
         
           Or
           change
           that
           face
           ,
           or
           you
           must
           needs
           be
           kind
           ,
        
         
           Beauty
           and
           Vertue
           seldom
           have
           been
           joyn'd
           .
        
         
           Iove
           and
           bright
           Venus
           do
           our
           thefts
           approve
           ,
        
         
           Such
           thefts
           as
           these
           gave
           you
           your
           Father
           Iove
           ,
        
         
           And
           if
           in
           you
           ought
           of
           your
           Parents
           last
           ,
        
         
           Can
           Jove
           and
           
           Leda's
           Daughter
           well
           be
           chast
           ?
        
         
           Yet
           then
           be
           chast
           when
           we
           to
           Troy
           shall
           go
           ;
        
         
           (
           For
           she
           who
           sins
           with
           one
           alone
           ,
           is
           so
           .
           )
        
         
           But
           let
           us
           now
           enjoy
           that
           pleasing
           sin
           ,
        
         
           Then
           Marry
           and
           be
           innocent
           agen
           .
        
         
           Ev'n
           your
           own
           Husband
           doth
           the
           same
           perswade
           ,
        
         
           Silent
           Himself
           ,
           yet
           all
           His
           actions
           plead
           :
        
         
           For
           me
           they
           plead
           ,
           and
           he
           ,
           good
           man
           ,
           because
        
         
           He
           'll
           spoil
           no
           sport
           ,
           officiously
           withdraws
           .
        
         
           Had
           he
           no
           other
           time
           to
           visit
           Crete
           ?
        
         
           Oh!
           How
           prodigious
           is
           a
           Husbands
           Wit
           !
        
         
           He
           went
           ,
           and
           as
           he
           went
           He
           cry'd
           ,
           My
           Dear
           ,
        
         
           Instead
           of
           me
           ,
           you
           of
           our
           Guest
           take
           care
           .
        
         
         
           But
           you
           forget
           your
           Lords
           Command
           I
           see
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           take
           you
           any
           care
           of
           Love
           or
           me
           .
        
         
           And
           think
           you
           such
           a
           thing
           as
           He
           do's
           know
        
         
           The
           treasure
           that
           he
           holds
           in
           holding
           you
           ?
        
         
           No
           ,
           did
           he
           understand
           but
           half
           your
           charms
           ;
        
         
           He
           durst
           not
           trust
           'em
           in
           a
           strangers
           arms
           .
        
         
           If
           neither
           his
           nor
           my
           request
           can
           move
           ,
        
         
           We
           're
           forc't
           by
           Opportunity
           to
           Love
           ;
        
         
           We
           should
           be
           fools
           ,
           even
           greater
           fools
           than
           He
           ,
        
         
           Should
           so
           secure
           a
           time
           unactive
           be
           .
        
         
           Alone
           these
           tedious
           winter
           nights
           you
           lie
        
         
           In
           a
           cold
           widow'd
           bed
           ,
           and
           so
           do
           I.
        
         
           Let
           mutual
           joys
           ,
           our
           willing
           bodies
           joyn
           ,
        
         
           That
           happy
           night
           shall
           the
           mid
           day
           out
           shine
           .
        
         
           Then
           will
           I
           swear
           by
           all
           the
           Pow'rs
           above
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           their
           awful
           presence
           seal
           my
           Love.
        
         
           Then
           if
           my
           wishes
           may
           aspire
           so
           High
           ,
        
         
           I
           with
           our
           flight
           shall
           win
           you
           to
           comply
           ;
        
         
         
           But
           if
           nice
           Honour
           little
           scruples
           frame
           ,
        
         
           The
           force
           I
           'le
           use
           shall
           vindicate
           your
           same
           .
        
         
           Of
           Theseus
           and
           your
           Brothers
           I
           can
           learn
           ,
        
         
           No
           precedents
           so
           nearly
           you
           concern
           :
        
         
           You
           Theseus
           ,
           they
           Leucippus
           Daughter
           stole
           ,
        
         
           I
           'l
           be
           the
           fourth
           in
           the
           illustrious
           roll
           .
        
         
           Well
           man'd
           ,
           well
           arm'd
           for
           you
           my
           Fleet
           do's
           stay
           ,
        
         
           And
           waiting
           winds
           murmur
           at
           our
           delay
           .
        
         
           Through
           Troys
           throng'd
           Streets
           you
           shall
           in
           triumph
           go
           ,
        
         
           Ador'd
           as
           some
           new
           Goddess
           here
           below
           .
        
         
           Where
           '
           ere
           you
           tread
           ,
           Spices
           and
           Gums
           shall
           smoak
           ▪
        
         
           And
           Victims
           fall
           beneath
           the
           fatal
           stroke
           .
        
         
           My
           Father
           ,
           Mother
           ,
           all
           the
           joyful
           Court
           ,
        
         
           All
           Troy
           to
           you
           with
           presents
           shall
           resort
           .
        
         
           Alas
           !
           't
           is
           nothing
           what
           I
           yet
           have
           said
           ,
        
         
           What
           there
           you
           'l
           find
           ,
           shall
           what
           I
           write
           exc●eed
           .
        
         
         
           Nor
           fear
           ,
           lest
           War
           pursue
           our
           hasty
           flight
           ,
        
         
           And
           angry
           Greece
           should
           all
           her
           force
           unite
           .
        
         
           What
           ravisht
           Maid
           did
           ever
           Wars
           regain
           ?
        
         
           Vain
           the
           attempt
           ,
           and
           fear
           of
           it
           as
           vain
           .
        
         
           The
           
             Thracians
             Orithya
          
           stole
           from
           far
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           Thrace
           near
           heard
           the
           noise
           of
           following
           War.
        
         
           Iason
           too
           stole
           away
           the
           Colchian
           Maid
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           Colchos
           did
           not
           Thessaly
           invade
           .
        
         
           He
           who
           stole
           you
           ,
           stole
           Ariadne
           too
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           Minos
           did
           not
           with
           all
           Crete
           puruse
           .
        
         
           Fear
           in
           these
           cases
           than
           the
           danger
           's
           more
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           the
           threatning
           tempest
           once
           is
           o're
           ,
        
         
           Our
           shame
           's
           then
           greater
           than
           our
           fear
           before
           .
        
         
           But
           say
           from
           Greece
           a
           threatned
           War
           persue
           ,
        
         
           Know
           I
           have
           strength
           and
           wounding
           weapons
           too
           .
        
         
           In
           Men
           and
           Horse
           more
           numerous
           than
           Greece
        
         
           Our
           Empire
           is
           ,
           nor
           in
           it's
           compass
           less
           .
        
         
         
           Nor
           do's
           your
           Husband
           Paris
           ought
           excel
        
         
           In
           generous
           courage
           or
           in
           Martial
           skill
           .
        
         
           Ev'n
           but
           a
           Boy
           from
           my
           slain
           Foes
           I
           gain'd
        
         
           My
           stolen
           Heard
           ,
           and
           a
           new
           Name
           attain'd
           ;
        
         
           Ev'n
           then
           or'come
           by
           me
           I
           cou'd
           produce
        
         
           Deiphobus
           
             and
             great
          
           Ilioneus
           .
        
         
           Nor
           hand
           to
           hand
           more
           to
           be
           fear'd
           am
           I
           ,
        
         
           Than
           when
           from
           far
           my
           certain
           Arrows
           fly
           .
        
         
           You
           for
           his
           Youth
           can
           no
           such
           actions
           feign
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           can
           he
           e're
           my
           envy'd
           skill
           attain
           .
        
         
           But
           could
           he
           ,
           
           Hector's
           your
           security
           ,
        
         
           And
           he
           alone
           an
           Army
           is
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           You
           know
           me
           not
           ,
           nor
           the
           hid
           Prowess
           find
        
         
           Of
           Him
           that
           Heav'n
           has
           for
           your
           bed
           design'd
           .
        
         
           Either
           no
           War
           from
           Greece
           shall
           follow
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Or
           if
           it
           do's
           ,
           shall
           be
           repell'd
           by
           me
           .
        
         
           Nor
           think
           I
           fear
           to
           fight
           for
           such
           a
           Wife
           ,
        
         
           That
           prize
           would
           give
           the
           Coward
           's
           courage
           life
           .
        
         
         
           All
           after
           ages
           shall
           your
           fame
           admire
           ,
        
         
           If
           you
           alone
           set
           the
           whole
           world
           on
           fire
           .
        
         
           To
           Sea
           ,
           to
           Sea
           ,
           while
           all
           the
           Gods
           are
           kind
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           I
           promise
           ,
           you
           in
           Troy
           shall
           find
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           HELEN
           TO
           PARIS
           .
        
         
           By
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           the
           Earl
           of
           MULGRAVE
           AND
           Mr.
           DRYDEN
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Helen
             ,
             having
             received
             the
             foregoing
             Epistle
             from
             Paris
             ,
             returns
             the
             following
             Answer
             :
             wherein
             she
             seems
             at
             first
             to
             chide
             him
             for
             his
             Presumption
             in
             Writing
             ,
             as
             he
             had
             done
             ,
             which
             could
             only
             proceed
             from
             his
             low
             Opinion
             of
             her
             Vertue
             ;
             then
             owns
             her self
             to
             be
             sensible
             of
             the
             Passion
             ,
             which
             he
             had
             expressed
             for
             her
             ,
             tho
             she
             much
             suspect
             his
             Constancy
             ;
             and
             at
             last
             discovers
             her
             Inclinations
             to
             be
             favourable
             to
             him
             .
             The
             whole
             Letter
             shewing
             the
             extream
             artifice
             of
             Woman-kind
             .
          
        
         
           WHen
           loose
           Epistles
           violate
           Chast
           Eyes
           ,
        
         
           She
           half
           Consents
           ,
           who
           silently
           denies
           :
        
         
         
           How
           dares
           a
           Stranger
           with
           designs
           so
           vain
           ,
        
         
           Marriage
           and
           Hospitable
           Rights
           Prophane
           ?
        
         
           Was
           it
           for
           this
           ,
           your
           Fate
           did
           shelter
           find
        
         
           From
           swelling
           Seas
           and
           every
           faithless
           wind
           ?
        
         
           (
           For
           tho
           a
           distant
           Country
           brought
           you
           forth
           ,
        
         
           Your
           usage
           here
           was
           equal
           to
           your
           worth
           .
           )
        
         
           Does
           this
           deserve
           to
           be
           rewarded
           so
           ?
        
         
           Did
           you
           come
           here
           a
           Stranger
           ,
           or
           a
           Foe
           ?
        
         
           Your
           partial
           Judgment
           may
           perhaps
           complain
           ;
        
         
           And
           think
           me
           barbarous
           for
           my
           just
           disdain
           ;
        
         
           Ill-bred
           then
           let
           me
           be
           ,
           but
           not
           unchast
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           my
           clear
           fame
           with
           any
           spot
           defac'd
           :
        
         
           Tho
           in
           my
           face
           there
           's
           no
           affected
           Frown
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           in
           my
           Carriage
           a
           feign'd
           niceness
           shown
           ,
        
         
           I
           keep
           my
           Honor
           still
           without
           a
           stain
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           has
           my
           Love
           made
           any
           Coxcomb
           vain
           .
        
         
           Your
           Boldness
           I
           with
           admiration
           see
           ;
        
         
           What
           hope
           had
           you
           to
           gain
           a
           Queen
           like
           me
           ?
        
         
         
           Because
           a
           Hero
           forc'd
           me
           once
           away
           ,
        
         
           Am
           I
           thought
           fit
           to
           be
           a
           second
           prey
           ?
        
         
           Had
           I
           been
           won
           ,
           I
           had
           deserv'd
           your
           blame
           ,
        
         
           But
           sure
           my
           part
           was
           nothing
           but
           the
           shame
           :
        
         
           Yet
           the
           base
           theft
           to
           him
           no
           fruit
           did
           bear
           ,
        
         
           I
           scap'd
           unhurt
           by
           any
           thing
           but
           fear
           .
        
         
           Rude
           force
           might
           some
           unwilling
           Kisses
           gain
           ,
        
         
           But
           that
           was
           all
           he
           ever
           cou'd
           obtain
           .
        
         
           You
           on
           such
           terms
           would
           nere
           have
           let
           me
           go
           ,
        
         
           Were
           he
           like
           you
           ,
           we
           had
           not
           parted
           so
           .
        
         
           Untouch'd
           the
           Youth
           restor'd
           me
           to
           my
           Friends
           ,
        
         
           And
           modest
           usage
           made
           me
           some
           amends
           ;
        
         
           'T
           is
           vertue
           to
           repent
           a
           vicious
           deed
           ;
        
         
           Did
           he
           repent
           that
           Paris
           might
           succeed
           ?
        
         
           Sure
           't
           is
           some
           Fate
           that
           sets
           me
           above
           wrongs
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           still
           exposes
           me
           to
           busie
           tongues
           .
        
         
           I
           l'e
           not
           complain
           ,
           for
           whose's
           displeas'd
           with
           Love
           ,
        
         
           If
           it
           sincere
           ,
           discreet
           ,
           and
           Constant
           prove
           ?
        
         
         
           But
           that
           I
           fear
           ;
           not
           that
           I
           think
           you
           base
           ,
        
         
           Or
           doubt
           the
           blooming
           beauties
           of
           my
           face
           ?
        
         
           But
           all
           your
           Sex
           is
           subject
           to
           deceive
           ,
        
         
           And
           ours
           alas
           ,
           too
           willing
           to
           believe
           .
        
         
           Yet
           others
           yield
           :
           and
           Love
           o'recomes
           the
           best
           ,
        
         
           But
           why
           should
           I
           not
           shine
           above
           the
           rest
           ?
        
         
           Fair
           
           Leda's
           Story
           seems
           at
           first
           to
           be
        
         
           A
           fit
           example
           ready
           found
           for
           me
           ;
        
         
           But
           she
           was
           Cousen'd
           by
           a
           borrow'd
           shape
           ,
        
         
           And
           under
           harmless
           Feathers
           felt
           a
           Rape
           :
        
         
           If
           I
           should
           yield
           ,
           what
           Reason
           could
           I
           use
           ?
        
         
           By
           what
           mistake
           the
           Loving
           Crime
           excuse
           ?
        
         
           Her
           fault
           was
           in
           her
           pow'rful
           Lover
           lost
           ,
        
         
           But
           of
           what
           Iupiter
           have
           I
           to
           boast
           ?
        
         
           Tho
           you
           to
           Heroes
           ,
           and
           to
           Kings
           succeed
           ,
        
         
           Our
           Famous
           Race
           does
           no
           addition
           need
           ,
        
         
           And
           great
           Alliances
           but
           useless
           prove
        
         
           To
           one
           that
           's
           come
           her self
           from
           mighty
           Iove
           .
        
         
         
           Go
           then
           and
           boast
           in
           some
           less
           haughty
           place
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Phrygian
           Blood
           ,
           and
           
           Priam's
           Ancient
           race
           ,
        
         
           Which
           I
           wou'd
           shew
           I
           valu'd
           ,
           if
           I
           durst
           ;
        
         
           You
           are
           the
           fifth
           from
           Iove
           ,
           but
           I
           the
           first
           ,
        
         
           The
           Crown
           of
           Troy
           is
           pow'rful
           I
           confess
           ,
        
         
           But
           I
           have
           reason
           to
           think
           ours
           no
           less
           .
        
         
           Your
           Letter
           fill'd
           with
           promises
           of
           all
           ,
        
         
           That
           Men
           can
           good
           ,
           or
           Women
           pleasant
           call
           ,
        
         
           Gives
           expectation
           such
           an
           ample
           field
           ,
        
         
           As
           wou'd
           move
           Goddesses
           themselves
           to
           yield
           .
        
         
           But
           if
           I
           e're
           offend
           great
           
           Iuno's
           Laws
           ,
        
         
           Your self
           shall
           be
           the
           Dear
           ,
           the
           only
           Cause
           ;
        
         
           Either
           my
           Honour
           I
           'll
           to
           death
           maintain
           ,
        
         
           Or
           follow
           you
           ,
           without
           mean
           thoughts
           of
           Gain
           .
        
         
           Not
           that
           so
           fair
           a
           Present
           I
           despise
           ,
        
         
           We
           like
           the
           Gift
           ,
           when
           we
           the
           giver
           prize
           .
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           your
           Love
           moves
           me
           ,
           which
           made
           you
           take
           ,
        
         
           Such
           pains
           ,
           &
           run
           such
           hazards
           for
           my
           sake
           ;
        
         
         
           I
           have
           perceiv'd
           (
           though
           I
           dissembled
           too
           )
        
         
           A
           Thousand
           things
           that
           Love
           has
           made
           you
           do
           ;
        
         
           Your
           eager
           Eyes
           would
           almost
           dazle
           mine
           ,
        
         
           In
           which
           (
           wild
           man
           )
           your
           wanton
           thoughts
           wou'd
           shine
           .
        
         
           Sometimes
           you
           'd
           sigh
           ,
           sometimes
           disorder'd
           stand
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           unusual
           ardor
           ,
           press
           my
           hand
           ;
        
         
           Contrive
           just
           after
           me
           to
           take
           the
           Glass
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           wou'd
           you
           let
           the
           least
           occasion
           pass
           ,
        
         
           Which
           oft
           I
           fear'd
           ,
           I
           did
           not
           mind
           alone
           ,
        
         
           And
           blushing
           sate
           for
           things
           which
           you
           have
           done
           ;
        
         
           Then
           murmur'd
           to
           my self
           ,
           he
           'll
           for
           my
           sake
        
         
           Do
           any
           thing
           ,
           I
           hope
           't
           was
           no
           mistake
           :
        
         
           Oft
           have
           I
           read
           within
           this
           pleasing
           Grove
           ,
        
         
           Under
           my
           Name
           those
           Charming
           words
           ,
           I
           Love
           ,
        
         
           I
           frowning
           ,
           seem'd
           not
           to
           believe
           your
           Flame
           ,
        
         
           But
           now
           ,
           alas
           ,
           am
           come
           to
           write
           the
           same
           .
        
         
         
           If
           I
           were
           capable
           to
           do
           amiss
           ,
        
         
           I
           could
           not
           but
           be
           sensible
           of
           this
           .
        
         
           For
           oh
           !
           your
           Face
           has
           such
           peculiar
           charms
           ,
        
         
           That
           who
           can
           hold
           from
           flying
           to
           your
           arms
           ?
        
         
           But
           what
           I
           ner'e
           can
           have
           without
           offence
           ,
        
         
           May
           some
           blest
           Maid
           possess
           with
           innocence
           .
        
         
           Pleasure
           may
           tempt
           ,
           but
           vertue
           more
           should
           move
           ,
        
         
           O
           Learn
           of
           me
           to
           want
           the
           thing
           you
           Love.
        
         
           What
           you
           desire
           is
           sought
           by
           all
           mankind
           :
        
         
           As
           you
           have
           eyes
           ,
           so
           others
           are
           not
           blind
           .
        
         
           Like
           you
           they
           see
           ,
           like
           you
           my
           charms
           adore
           ,
        
         
           They
           wish
           not
           less
           ,
           but
           you
           dare
           venture
           more
           :
        
         
           Oh!
           had
           you
           then
           upon
           our
           Coasts
           been
           brought
           ,
        
         
           My
           Virgin
           Love
           ,
           when
           thousand
           Rivals
           sought
           ,
        
         
           You
           had
           I
           seen
           ,
           you
           should
           have
           had
           my
           voice
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           could
           my
           Husband
           justly
           blame
           my
           Choice
           ,
        
         
         
           For
           both
           our
           hopes
           ,
           alas
           you
           come
           to
           late
           !
        
         
           Another
           now
           is
           Master
           of
           my
           Fate
           .
        
         
           More
           to
           my
           wish
           I
           cou'd
           have
           liv'd
           with
           you
           ,
        
         
           And
           yet
           my
           present
           lot
           can
           undergo
           .
        
         
           Cease
           to
           solicit
           a
           weak
           Woman's
           will
           ,
        
         
           And
           urge
           not
           her
           you
           Love
           ,
           to
           so
           much
           ill
           .
        
         
           But
           let
           me
           live
           contented
           as
           I
           may
           ,
        
         
           And
           make
           not
           my
           unspotted
           fame
           your
           prey
           .
        
         
           Some
           Right
           you
           claim
           ,
           since
           naked
           to
           your
           eyes
        
         
           Three
           Goddesses
           disputed
           Beauties
           prize
           ;
        
         
           One
           offer'd
           Valour
           ,
           to'ther
           Crowns
           ,
           but
           she
        
         
           Obtain'd
           her
           Cause
           ,
           who
           smiling
           promis'd
           me
           .
        
         
           But
           first
           I
           am
           not
           of
           belief
           so
           light
           ,
        
         
           To
           think
           such
           Nymphs
           wou'd
           shew
           you
           such
           a
           sight
           .
        
         
           Yet
           granting
           this
           ,
           the
           other
           part
           is
           feign'd
           :
        
         
           A
           Bribe
           so
           mean
           ,
           your
           sentence
           had
           not
           gain'd
           .
        
         
           With
           partial
           eyes
           I
           shou'd
           my self
           regard
           ,
        
         
           To
           think
           that
           Venus
           made
           me
           her
           reward
           :
        
         
         
           I
           humbly
           am
           content
           with
           human
           praise
           ;
        
         
           A
           Goddesse's
           applause
           wou'd
           envy
           raise
           :
        
         
           But
           be
           it
           as
           you
           say
           ,
           for
           't
           is
           confest
           ,
        
         
           The
           Men
           who
           flatter
           highest
           ,
           please
           us
           best
           .
        
         
           That
           I
           suspect
           it
           ,
           ought
           not
           to
           displease
           ;
        
         
           For
           Miracles
           are
           not
           believ'd
           with
           ease
           .
        
         
           One
           joy
           I
           have
           ,
           that
           I
           have
           Venus
           voice
           ;
        
         
           A
           greater
           yet
           ,
           that
           you
           confirm'd
           her
           Choice
           ;
        
         
           That
           proffer'd
           Laurels
           ,
           promis'd
           Sov'raignty
           ,
        
         
           Iuno
           and
           Pallas
           you
           contemn'd
           for
           me
           .
        
         
           Am
           I
           your
           Empire
           then
           ,
           and
           your
           renown
           ?
        
         
           What
           heart
           of
           Rock
           but
           must
           by
           this
           be
           won
           ?
        
         
           And
           yet
           bear
           witness
           ,
           O
           you
           Powr's
           above
           ,
        
         
           How
           rude
           I
           am
           in
           all
           the
           Arts
           of
           Love
           !
        
         
           My
           hand
           is
           yet
           untaught
           to
           write
           to
           men
           ;
        
         
           This
           is
           th'
           Essay
           of
           my
           unpractis'd
           pen
           :
        
         
           Happy
           those
           Nymphs
           ,
           whom
           use
           has
           perfect
           made
           :
        
         
           I
           think
           all
           Crime
           ,
           and
           tremble
           at
           a
           shade
           .
        
         
         
           Ev'n
           while
           I
           write
           ,
           my
           fearful
           conscious
           eyes
        
         
           Look
           often
           back
           ,
           misdoubting
           a
           surprize
           .
        
         
           For
           now
           the
           Rumour
           spreads
           among
           the
           Croud
           ,
        
         
           At
           Court
           in
           whispers
           ,
           but
           in
           Town
           aloud
           :
        
         
           Dissemble
           you
           ,
           what
           er'e
           you
           hear
           e'm
           say
           :
        
         
           To
           leave
           off
           Loving
           were
           your
           better
           way
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           if
           you
           will
           dissemble
           it
           ,
           you
           may
           .
        
         
           Love
           secretly
           :
           the
           absence
           of
           my
           Lord
           ,
        
         
           More
           freedom
           gives
           ,
           but
           does
           not
           all
           afford
           :
        
         
           Long
           is
           his
           Journey
           ,
           long
           will
           be
           his
           stay
           ;
        
         
           Call'd
           by
           affairs
           of
           Consequence
           away
           .
        
         
           To
           go
           or
           not
           when
           unresolv'd
           he
           stood
           ,
        
         
           I
           bid
           him
           make
           what
           swift
           return
           he
           cou'd
           :
        
         
           Then
           Kissing
           me
           ,
           he
           said
           I
           recommend
        
         
           All
           to
           thy
           Care
           ,
           but
           most
           my
           Trojan
           Friend
           .
        
         
           I
           smil'd
           at
           what
           he
           innocently
           said
           ,
        
         
           And
           only
           answer'd
           ,
           you
           shall
           be
           obey'd
           .
        
         
         
           Propitious
           winds
           have
           born
           him
           far
           from
           hence
           ,
        
         
           But
           let
           not
           this
           secure
           your
           confidence
           .
        
         
           Absent
           he
           is
           ,
           yet
           absent
           he
           Commands
           ,
        
         
           You
           know
           the
           Proverb
           ,
           Princes
           have
           long
           hands
           .
        
         
           My
           Fame
           's
           my
           burden
           ,
           for
           the
           more
           I
           'm
           prais'd
           ;
        
         
           A
           juster
           ground
           of
           jealousie
           is
           rais'd
           .
        
         
           Were
           I
           less
           fair
           ,
           I
           might
           have
           been
           more
           blest
           :
        
         
           Great
           Beauty
           through
           great
           danger
           is
           possest
           .
        
         
           To
           leave
           me
           here
           his
           venture
           was
           not
           hard
           ,
        
         
           Because
           he
           thought
           my
           vertue
           was
           my
           Guard.
        
         
           He
           fear'd
           my
           Face
           ,
           but
           trusted
           to
           my
           Life
           ,
        
         
           The
           Beauty
           doubted
           ,
           but
           believ'd
           the
           Wife
           :
        
         
           You
           bid
           me
           use
           th'
           occasion
           while
           I
           can
           ,
        
         
           Put
           in
           our
           hands
           by
           the
           good
           easie
           man.
        
         
           I
           wou'd
           ,
           and
           yet
           I
           doubt
           ,
           'twixt
           Love
           and
           fear
           ;
        
         
           One
           draws
           me
           from
           you
           ,
           and
           one
           brings
           me
           near
           .
        
         
           Our
           flames
           are
           mutual
           :
           and
           my
           Husband
           's
           gone
           ,
        
         
           The
           nights
           are
           long
           ;
           I
           fear
           to
           lie
           alone
           .
        
         
         
           One
           House
           contains
           us
           ,
           and
           weak
           Walls
           divide
           .
        
         
           And
           you
           're
           too
           pressing
           to
           be
           long
           denied
           :
        
         
           Let
           me
           not
           live
           ,
           but
           every
           thing
           conspires
           ,
        
         
           To
           joyn
           our
           Loves
           ,
           and
           yet
           my
           fear
           retires
           .
        
         
           You
           Court
           with
           words
           ,
           when
           you
           shou'd
           force
           employ
           ,
        
         
           As
           Rape
           is
           requisite
           to
           shamefac'd
           joy
           .
        
         
           Indulgent
           to
           the
           wrongs
           which
           we
           receive
           ,
        
         
           Our
           Sex
           can
           suffer
           what
           we
           dare
           not
           give
           .
        
         
           What
           have
           I
           said
           !
           for
           both
           of
           us
           't
           were
           best
           ,
        
         
           Our
           kindling
           fires
           ,
           if
           each
           of
           us
           supprest
           .
        
         
           The
           Faith
           of
           Strangers
           is
           too
           prone
           to
           change
           ,
        
         
           And
           like
           themselves
           their
           wandring
           Passions
           range
           .
        
         
           Hipsypile
           ,
           and
           the
           fond
           Minoian
           Maid
           ,
        
         
           Were
           both
           by
           trusting
           of
           their
           Ghests
           betray'd
           .
        
         
           How
           can
           I
           doubt
           that
           other
           men
           deceive
           ,
        
         
           When
           you
           your self
           did
           fair
           Oenone
           leave
           ?
        
         
           But
           lest
           I
           shou'd
           upbraid
           your
           treachery
           ,
        
         
           You
           make
           a
           merit
           of
           that
           Crime
           to
           me
           :
        
         
         
           Yet
           grant
           you
           were
           to
           faithful
           Love
           inclin'd
           ,
        
         
           Your
           weary
           Trojans
           wait
           but
           for
           a
           wind
           .
        
         
           Shou'd
           you
           prevail
           while
           I
           assign
           the
           night
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Sails
           are
           hoysted
           ,
           and
           you
           take
           your
           flight
           :
        
         
           Some
           bawling
           Mariner
           our
           Love
           destroys
           ,
        
         
           And
           breaks
           a
           sunder
           our
           unfinish'd
           joys
           .
        
         
           But
           I
           with
           you
           may
           leave
           the
           Spartan
           Port
           ,
        
         
           To
           view
           the
           Trojan
           Wealth
           ,
           and
           
           Priam's
           Court.
        
         
           Shown
           while
           I
           see
           ,
           I
           shall
           expose
           my
           Fame
           :
        
         
           And
           fill
           a
           foreign
           Country
           with
           my
           shame
           .
        
         
           In
           Asia
           what
           reception
           shall
           I
           find
           ?
        
         
           And
           what
           dishonour
           leave
           in
           Greece
           behind
           ?
        
         
           What
           will
           your
           Brothers
           ,
           
             Priam
             ,
             Hecuba
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           what
           will
           all
           your
           modest
           Matrons
           say
           ?
        
         
           Ev'n
           you
           ,
           when
           on
           this
           action
           you
           reflect
           ,
        
         
           My
           future
           Conduct
           justly
           may
           suspect
           :
        
         
           And
           what
           er'e
           Stranger
           Lands
           upon
           your
           Coast
           ,
        
         
           Conclude
           me
           ,
           by
           your
           own
           example
           ,
           lost
           .
        
         
         
           I
           from
           your
           rage
           ,
           a
           Strumpet's
           Name
           shall
           hear
           ,
        
         
           While
           you
           forget
           ,
           what
           part
           in
           it
           you
           bear
           .
        
         
           You
           my
           Crimes
           Authour
           ,
           will
           my
           Crime
           upbraid
           :
        
         
           Deep
           under
           ground
           ,
           Oh
           let
           me
           first
           be
           laid
           !
        
         
           You
           boast
           the
           Pomp
           and
           Plenty
           of
           your
           Land
           ,
        
         
           And
           promise
           all
           shall
           be
           at
           my
           Command
           ;
        
         
           Your
           Trojan
           Wealth
           ,
           believe
           me
           ,
           I
           despise
           ;
        
         
           My
           own
           poor
           Nat̄ive
           Land
           has
           dearer
           ties
           .
        
         
           Shou'd
           I
           be
           injur'd
           on
           your
           Phrygian
           Shore
           ,
        
         
           What
           help
           of
           Kindred
           cou'd
           I
           there
           implore
           ?
        
         
           Medea
           was
           by
           Iasons
           flatt'ry
           won
           :
        
         
           I
           may
           like
           her
           believe
           and
           be
           undon
           .
        
         
           Plain
           honest
           hearts
           ,
           like
           mine
           ,
           suspect
           no
           cheat
           ;
        
         
           And
           Love
           contributes
           to
           its
           own
           deceit
           .
        
         
           The
           Ships
           about
           whose
           sides
           loud
           Tempests
           roar
           ,
        
         
           With
           gentle
           Winds
           were
           wafted
           from
           the
           Shore
           .
        
         
           Your
           teeming
           Mother
           dreamt
           a
           flaming
           Brand
        
         
           Sprung
           from
           her
           Womb
           consum'd
           the
           Trojan
           Land.
        
         
         
           To
           second
           this
           ,
           old
           Prophecies
           conspire
           ,
        
         
           That
           Ilium
           shall
           be
           burnt
           with
           Grecian
           fire
           :
        
         
           Both
           give
           me
           fear
           ,
           nor
           is
           it
           much
           allai'd
           ,
        
         
           That
           Venus
           is
           oblig'd
           our
           Loves
           to
           aid
           .
        
         
           For
           they
           who
           lost
           their
           Cause
           ,
           revenge
           will
           take
           ,
        
         
           And
           for
           one
           Friend
           two
           Enemies
           you
           make
           .
        
         
           Nor
           can
           I
           doubt
           ,
           but
           shou'd
           I
           follow
           you
           ,
        
         
           The
           Sword
           wou'd
           soon
           our
           fatal
           Crime
           pursue
           :
        
         
           A
           wrong
           so
           great
           my
           Husband's
           rage
           wou'd
           rouze
           ,
        
         
           And
           my
           Relations
           wou'd
           his
           Cause
           espouse
           .
        
         
           You
           boast
           your
           Strength
           and
           Courage
           ,
           but
           alas
           !
        
         
           Your
           words
           receive
           small
           credit
           from
           your
           Face
           .
        
         
           Let
           Heroes
           in
           the
           Dusty
           field
           delight
           ,
        
         
           Those
           Limbs
           were
           fashion'd
           for
           another
           fight
           .
        
         
           Bid
           Hector
           sally
           from
           the
           Walls
           of
           Troy
           ,
        
         
           A
           sweter
           quarrel
           shou'd
           your
           arms
           employ
           .
        
         
         
           Yet
           fears
           like
           these
           ,
           shou'd
           not
           my
           mind
           perplex
           ,
        
         
           Were
           I
           as
           wise
           as
           many
           of
           my
           Sex.
        
         
           But
           time
           and
           you
           ,
           may
           bolder
           thoughts
           inspire
           ;
        
         
           And
           I
           perhaps
           may
           yield
           to
           your
           desire
           .
        
         
           You
           last
           demand
           a
           private
           Conference
           ,
        
         
           These
           are
           your
           words
           ,
           but
           I
           can
           ghess
           your
           sense
           .
        
         
           Your
           unripe
           hopes
           their
           harvest
           must
           attend
           :
        
         
           Be
           Rul'd
           by
           me
           ,
           and
           time
           may
           be
           your
           friend
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           enough
           to
           let
           you
           understand
           ,
        
         
           For
           now
           my
           Pen
           has
           tir'd
           my
           tender
           hand
           :
        
         
           My
           Woman
           Knows
           the
           secret
           of
           my
           heart
           ,
        
         
           And
           may
           hereafter
           better
           news
           impart
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           PENELOPE
           TO
           ULYSSES
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           RYMER
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             The
             Rape
             of
             Helen
             having
             carried
             all
             the
             Grecian
             Princes
             to
             the
             Siege
             of
             
               Troy
               ;
               Ulysses
            
             amongst
             the
             rest
             ,
             there
             signaliz'd
             his
             manhood
             ,
             and
             prudence
             particularly
             .
             But
             the
             siege
             at
             an
             end
             ,
             and
             he
             not
             returning
             with
             the
             other
             Captains
             ,
             Penelope
             sends
             this
             Letter
             in
             quest
             of
             him
             ▪
             She
             had
             rendred
             her self
             as
             deservedly
             famous
             on
             her
             part
             by
             resisting
             all
             the
             while
             the
             importunity
             of
             her
             Suitors
             with
             an
             unusual
             constancy
             ,
             and
             fidelity
             .
             She
             complains
             to
             Ulysses
             of
             their
             carriage
             ,
             she
             likewise
             tells
             him
             her
             apprehensions
             and
             fears
             for
             him
             during
             the
             War
             ,
             and
             since
             ,
             acquaints
             him
             with
             the
             ill
             posture
             of
             his
             Family
             through
             his
             absence
             ,
             and
             desires
             him
             to
             hasten
             home
             as
             the
             only
             means
             to
             set
             all
             right
             again
             .
          
        
         
           To
           your
           Penelope
           at
           length
           break
           home
           ,
        
         
           Send
           no
           excuse
           ,
           nor
           stay
           to
           write
           ,
           but
           come
           .
        
         
         
           Our
           trouble
           long
           ,
           Troy
           ,
           does
           not
           hold
           you
           now
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           twenty
           
           Troy's
           were
           worth
           all
           this
           ado
           .
        
         
           Wou'd
           some
           just
           storm
           and
           raging
           Seas
           had
           drown'd
        
         
           The
           Ru●●ian
           ,
           when
           for
           Lacedemon
           bound
           ;
        
         
           I
           should
           not
           then
           of
           tedious
           daies
           complain
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           cold
           a
           nights
           and
           comfortless
           have
           lay'n
           :
        
         
           Nor
           should
           this
           pains
           to
           pass
           the
           evenings
           take
           ,
        
         
           And
           work
           ,
           and
           weave
           ev'n
           till
           my
           fingers
           ake
           .
        
         
           I
           alwaies
           fear'd
           worse
           dangers
           than
           the
           true
           ,
        
         
           (
           As
           alwaies
           Love
           unquiet
           fears
           pursue
           )
        
         
           Fancy'd
           thee
           by
           fierce
           Trojans
           compast
           round
           ,
        
         
           And
           
           Hector's
           name
           still
           struck
           me
           to
           the
           ground
           .
        
         
           When
           told
           of
           Nestors
           Son
           ,
           by
           Hector
           slain
           ,
        
         
           Streight
           Nestors
           Son
           rouz'd
           all
           my
           fears
           again
           .
        
         
           When
           for
           his
           sham
           how
           dear
           Patroclus
           paid
           ;
        
         
           I
           wept
           to
           find
           that
           wit
           no
           better
           sped
           .
        
         
         
           Tlepolemus
           by
           Trojan
           javelin
           kil'd
           ,
        
         
           Thro'
           all
           my
           veins
           an
           icy
           terror
           thrill'd
           .
        
         
           Whatever
           Greeks
           miscarry'd
           in
           the
           fray
           ,
        
         
           I
           fainted
           ,
           and
           sell
           (
           well
           nigh
           )
           dead
           as
           they
           .
        
         
           Heaven
           for
           chast
           Love
           has
           better
           sate
           in
           store
           ,
        
         
           My
           Husband
           lives
           ,
           and
           Troy
           is
           now
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           Our
           Captains
           well
           return'd
           ,
           each
           Altar
           flames
           ,
        
         
           And
           Temples
           all
           Barbarian
           Booty
           crams
           ;
        
         
           For
           their
           safe
           Loves
           the
           women
           Offrings
           bring
           ,
        
         
           And
           Trojan
           Fates
           by
           ours
           defeated
           sing
           .
        
         
           All
           stand
           amaz'd
           to
           hear
           both
           old
           and
           young
           ,
        
         
           And
           list●●ing
           wives
           upon
           their
           Husbands
           hung
           .
        
         
           Some
           on
           the
           Table
           draw
           each
           bloody
           fight
           ,
        
         
           And
           spilling
           Wine
           the
           whole
           sad
           Iliad
           write
           .
        
         
           This
           Simois
           ,
           that
           the
           Sigean
           Land
           ,
        
         
           And
           there
           did
           Priams
           lofty
           Palace
           stand
           .
        
         
           Here
           skulkt
           Vlysses
           ,
           there
           Achilles
           dar'd
           ,
        
         
           There
           Hector
           torn
           ,
           the
           foaming
           Horses
           scar'd
           .
        
         
         
           All
           did
           Old
           Nestor
           to
           your
           Son
           explain
           ;
        
         
           To
           seek
           you
           sent
           ,
           who
           told
           me
           all
           again
           .
        
         
           Your
           Sword
           how
           Dolon
           ,
           no
           ,
           nor
           Rhesus
           scap'd
           ,
        
         
           Banter'd
           the
           one
           ,
           this
           taken
           as
           he
           napp'd
           .
        
         
           Fool-hardy
           you
           ,
           and
           us
           remembring
           ill
           ,
        
         
           Nightly
           amidst
           those
           Thracian
           Tents
           to
           steal
           ,
        
         
           There
           numbers
           slay
           ,
           one
           only
           ayding
           thee
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           hast
           been
           wise
           ,
           and
           would'st
           have
           thought
           on
           me
           .
        
         
           Still
           pant
           I
           ,
           told
           ,
           how
           all
           in
           triumph
           brave
           ,
        
         
           Round
           your
           friends
           Camp
           those
           Thracian
           Steeds
           you
           drave
           .
        
         
           But
           what
           avails
           it
           me
           that
           Troy
           did
           yield
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           your
           Prowess
           ,
           the
           Town
           is
           now
           a
           Field
           ?
        
         
           As
           when
           Troy
           stood
           ,
           I
           still
           remain
           alone
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           effect
           continues
           ,
           though
           the
           cause
           is
           gone
           .
        
         
           To
           others
           sac'kt
           ,
           to
           only
           me
           upheld
           ,
        
         
           Ev'n
           whil'st
           it
           lies
           by
           Greek
           abiders
           till'd
           .
        
         
         
           〈◊〉
           Priams
           Towers
           now
           lofty
           corn
           appears
           ,
        
         
           And
           Phrygian
           blood
           a
           pond'rous
           harvest
           rears
           .
        
         
           No
           House
           remains
           ,
           nought
           of
           a
           Trojan
           found
           ,
        
         
           Unless
           you
           dig
           their
           bones
           from
           under
           ground
           .
        
         
           Where
           art
           thou
           Conqueror
           ?
           what
           detains
           thee
           now
           ?
        
         
           Or
           may
           not
           I
           your
           new
           Atchiev'ments
           know
           ?
        
         
           What
           ever
           Skipper
           hither
           come
           a
           shore
           ,
        
         
           For
           thee
           I
           ask
           ,
           and
           ask
           him
           ore
           and
           ore
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           parts
           he
           ,
           till
           I
           scrible
           half
           a
           Sheet
           ,
        
         
           To
           give
           thee
           ,
           should
           you
           ever
           chance
           to
           meet
           .
        
         
           We
           sent
           to
           
             Pylos
             Nestors
          
           ancient
           seat
           ,
        
         
           From
           Pylos
           we
           no
           certain
           tydings
           gat
           :
        
         
           ●o
           Sparta
           sent
           ,
           the
           Spartans
           nothing
           know
           ,
        
         
           What
           course
           you
           Steer
           ,
           nor
           where
           you
           wander
           now
           .
        
         
           Wou'd
           those
           same
           God-built
           Walls
           were
           standing
           still
           ,
        
         
           Now
           I
           repent
           that
           ere
           I
           wisht'em
           ill
        
         
         
           Then
           where
           thou
           fought'st
           I
           surely
           should
           have
           learn'd
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           save
           for
           War
           ,
           the
           common
           grievance
           ,
           mourn'd
           .
        
         
           Now
           ,
           what
           I
           know
           not
           ,
           all
           I
           madly
           fear
           ,
        
         
           And
           a
           wide
           field
           lies
           open
           to
           my
           care
           .
        
         
           By
           Sea
           ,
           or
           Land
           whatever
           dangers
           sway
           ,
        
         
           Those
           I
           suspect
           the
           Causes
           of
           your
           stay
           .
        
         
           Whilst
           thus
           I
           simply
           muse
           ,
           who
           knows
           your
           mind
           ,
        
         
           Perhaps
           abroad
           some
           other
           Love
           you
           find
           :
        
         
           Perhaps
           to
           her
           your
           dowdy
           Wife
           define
           ,
        
         
           Who
           knows
           no
           more
           ,
           so
           that
           her
           Cupboards
           shine
           .
        
         
           No
           ;
           vanish
           jealous
           thoughts
           nor
           fright
           me
           more
           ,
        
         
           He
           wou'd
           be
           with
           me
           ,
           were
           it
           in
           his
           power
           .
        
         
           My
           Sire
           would
           force
           me
           from
           my
           Widows
           Bed
           ,
        
         
           Blames
           my
           delay
           ,
           and
           chides
           ,
           and
           shakes
           his
           head
           ,
        
         
           Let
           him
           chide
           on
           ,
           yours
           still
           ,
           yours
           only
           ,
           I
        
         
           
             Penelope
             Vlysses
          
           Wise
           will
           die
           .
        
         
         
           Yet
           by
           my
           Chast
           desires
           ,
           and
           vertue
           bent
           ,
        
         
           His
           temper
           does
           a
           little
           now
           relent
           .
        
         
           From
           Crete
           ,
           and
           
             Samos
             ,
             Rhodes
          
           ,
           and
           Zant
           set
           out
           ,
        
         
           To
           Court
           me
           come
           a
           wild
           unruly
           rout
           ;
        
         
           Who
           Revel
           in
           your
           house
           without
           controul
           ,
        
         
           And
           eat
           ,
           and
           wast
           your
           means
           ,
           our
           blood
           and
           soul
        
         
           Of
           
             Medon
             ,
             Polybus
             ,
             Pisander
          
           ,
           fell
        
         
           Eurymachus
           ,
           alas
           why
           should
           I
           tell
           ?
        
         
           With
           many
           more
           ,
           you
           (
           sadly
           out
           o'
           th
           '
           way
           )
        
         
           Feed
           here
           ,
           and
           on
           your
           substance
           let
           'um
           prey
           .
        
         
           The
           Beggar
           Irus
           ,
           and
           that
           Goat-heard
           Clown
           ,
        
         
           Melanchius
           range
           and
           rummage
           up
           and
           down
           .
        
         
           So
           kept
           your
           house
           ,
           such
           stout
           defenders
           we
           ,
        
         
           A
           helpless
           Wife
           ,
           old
           Man
           ,
           and
           little
           Boy
           .
        
         
           Whom
           late
           by
           trech'ry
           we
           had
           well
           nigh
           lost
           ,
        
         
           'Gainst
           all
           our
           minds
           as
           he
           to
           Pylos
           crost
           .
        
         
           But
           Heavens
           preserve
           him
           till
           he
           die
           in
           cours
           ,
        
         
           Having
           first
           clos'd
           mine
           eyes
           ,
           and
           also
           yours
           .
        
         
         
           Thus
           the
           old
           Nurse
           ,
           the
           Hind
           ,
           and
           Hogheard
           pray
           ;
        
         
           True
           Servants
           all
           ,
           and
           faithful
           in
           their
           way
           .
        
         
           Disarm'd
           by
           age
           ,
           Laertes
           is
           not
           fit
           ,
        
         
           Amidst
           these
           Bullies
           to
           maintain
           your
           right
           .
        
         
           Age
           ,
           if
           he
           lives
           ,
           Telemachus
           may
           bring
        
         
           To
           strength
           ,
           but
           yet
           he
           needs
           his
           Fathers
           wing
           .
        
         
           I
           ,
           what
           am
           I
           ?
           alas
           my
           help
           is
           small
           ,
        
         
           Come
           you
           the
           strength
           and
           safety
           of
           us
           all
           .
        
         
           So
           may
           your
           Son
           in
           vertuous
           Arts
           encrease
           ,
        
         
           So
           may
           the
           Old
           Laertes
           die
           in
           peace
           .
        
         
           Who
           in
           my
           Bloom
           did
           at
           your
           parting
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           I
           wither'd
           grow
           ,
           in
           waiting
           your
           return
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           HYPSIPYLE
           to
           JASON
           .
        
         
           BY
           Mr.
           SETTLE
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             The
             Desire
             of
             gaining
             the
             Golden
             Fleece
             ,
             put
             Jason
             upon
             a
             Voyage
             to
             Cholchos
             .
             In
             his
             passage
             ,
             he
             stop'd
             at
             the
             Island
             of
             Lemnos
             ,
             of
             which
             place
             Hypsipyle
             was
             then
             Queen
             ,
             famed
             for
             her
             pious
             saving
             of
             her
             Father
             Thoas
             ,
             in
             a
             general
             Massacre
             of
             the
             Men
             there
             by
             the
             Women
             of
             that
             Country
             .
             Her
             Entertainment
             of
             Jason
             so
             kind
             ,
             as
             induced
             him
             to
             stay
             there
             two
             years
             ,
             at
             the
             end
             of
             which
             he
             left
             the
             Island
             ,
             and
             the
             Queen
             ,
             (
             then
             big
             with
             Child
             ;
             )
             and
             after
             a
             thousand
             Vows
             of
             Constancy
             ,
             and
             a
             speedy
             return
             ,
             persues
             his
             first
             intended
             Voyage
             ,
             and
             arrives
             at
             Cholchos
             ,
             where
             Aeta
             was
             King.
             Medea
             his
             Daughter
             falls
             deeply
             in
             Love
             with
             Jason
             ,
             and
             by
             her
             Charms
             be
             gain'd
             the
             Golden
             Fleece
             ;
             with
             which
             and
             Medea
             ,
             he
             secretly
             saild
             home
             to
             
               Thessaly
               .
               Hypsipyle
            
             hearing
             of
             his
             Landing
             with
             her
             more
             happy
             Rival
             Medea
             ,
             writes
             him
             this
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           LAden
           ,
           they
           say
           with
           Iasons
           Golden
           Prize
           ,
        
         
           Proud
           Argo
           in
           
           Thessalia's
           Harbour
           lies
           .
        
         
         
           I
           would
           congratulate
           your
           safe
           return
           ;
        
         
           But
           from
           your
           pen
           I
           should
           that
           safety
           learn.
        
         
           When
           from
           my
           slighted
           Coast
           you
           bore
           away
           ,
        
         
           Spight
           of
           the
           winds
           ;
           you
           show'd
           less
           Faith
           ,
           than
           They.
        
         
           If
           't
           was
           too
           much
           t'
           enjoy
           my
           dearest
           Lord
           ,
        
         
           Sure
           I
           deserv'd
           one
           Line
           ,
           one
           tender
           word
           .
        
         
           Why
           did
           Fame
           first
           ,
           and
           not
           their
           Conqueror
           ,
           show
           ,
        
         
           How
           Wars
           Fierce
           God
           saw
           his
           tam'd
           Bulls
           at
           Plough
           .
        
         
           How
           th'Earthborn
           Warriours
           rose
           ,
           and
           how
           they
           fell
        
         
           By
           their
           own
           Swords
           ,
           without
           your
           Conquering
           steel
           .
        
         
           How
           in
           your
           Charms
           the
           fetter'd
           Dragon
           lay
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           your
           bold
           hand
           bore
           the
           curld
           Gold
           away
           .
        
         
           When
           doubtful
           Tongues
           shall
           Iasons
           wonders
           tell
           ,
        
         
           Would
           I
           could
           say
           ,
           see
           here
           's
           my
           Oracle
           .
        
         
         
           But
           tho'
           unkind
           Loves
           silence
           I
           deplore
           ,
        
         
           Your
           heart
           still
           mine
           ,
           I
           would
           desire
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           But
           ah
           ,
           that
           hope
           is
           vain
           ;
           —
           a
           Witch
           destroys
        
         
           My
           fancied
           pleasures
           ,
           and
           my
           promis'd
           Joys
           .
        
         
           Would
           I
           could
           say
           (
           but
           ,
           oh
           ,
           Loves
           fear
           's
           too
           strong
           !
           )
        
         
           Would
           I
           could
           say
           I
           guiltless
           Iason
           wrong
           .
        
         
           Lately
           a
           Guest
           came
           from
           th'
           Hemonian
           Land
           :
        
         
           My
           door
           scarce
           reacht
           ,
           with
           transport
           I
           demand
        
         
           How
           fares
           my
           Iason
           ?
           His
           sad
           look
           he
           bore
           ,
        
         
           Fixt
           with
           an
           ominous
           silence
           on
           the
           floor
           .
        
         
           My
           Robes
           I
           tore
           ,
           and
           thus
           ,
           with
           Horrour
           ,
           cry'd
           ,
        
         
           Lives
           he
           !
           or
           with
           one
           wound
           both
           hearts
           must
           bleed
           ?
        
         
           He
           lives
           ,
           said
           he
           ,
           to
           which
           I
           made
           him
           swear
           :
        
         
           He
           swore
           by
           Heav'n
           ,
           yet
           I
           retain'd
           my
           Fear
           .
        
         
         
           My
           sense
           return'd
           to
           ask
           your
           Deeds
           ,
           he
           said
           ,
        
         
           That
           the
           yok'd
           Bulls
           of
           Mars
           in
           Chains
           you
           led
           .
        
         
           The
           Snakes
           own
           Teeth
           a
           crop
           of
           Heroes
           bore
           ,
        
         
           Whil'st
           a
           rough
           native
           case
           their
           Limbs
           huskt
           o're
           .
        
         
           And
           by
           their
           own
           Intestine
           Fury
           slain
           ;
        
         
           One
           Days
           short
           Age
           compleats
           their
           active
           Raign
           .
        
         
           Again
           I
           ask
           ,
           does
           my
           dear
           Iason
           live
           ?
        
         
           Such
           Ebbs
           and
           Flows
           Loves
           fears
           &
           hopes
           do
           give
           .
        
         
           He
           fatally
           proceeds
           ,
           and
           with
           much
           Art
           ,
        
         
           Would
           hide
           ,
           yet
           shews
           the
           falseness
           of
           your
           heart
           .
        
         
           Ah
           ,
           where
           's
           your
           Nuptial
           Faith
           ,
           that
           flattering
           stile
           ,
        
         
           Loves
           Torch
           more
           fit
           to
           light
           my
           Funeral
           pile
           !
        
         
           I
           have
           no
           lawless
           plea
           to
           Iasons
           Love
           ;
        
         
           Iuno
           ,
           and
           Hymen
           our
           just
           Chaplets
           wove
           :
        
         
           Ah
           no!
           not
           these
           mild
           Gods
           :
           Erynnis
           hand
           ,
        
         
           At
           our
           curst
           Rites
           held
           her
           infernal
           Brand.
        
         
         
           Why
           to
           my
           Lemnos
           did
           your
           Vessel
           steer
           ?
        
         
           Or
           why
           fond
           fool
           ,
           did
           I
           admit
           you
           here
           ?
        
         
           Here
           no
           bright
           Ram
           with
           golden
           glory
           shone
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           was
           my
           Lemnos
           the
           Aetean
           Throne
           .
        
         
           At
           first
           —
           (
           but
           Fates
           all
           faint
           Resolves
           withstand
           )
        
         
           I
           thought
           t'
           expel
           you
           with
           a
           Female
           hand
           .
        
         
           The
           Lemnian
           Ladies
           are
           in
           Arms
           well
           skill'd
           :
        
         
           Their
           Guard
           had
           been
           my
           Lifes
           securest
           shield
           .
        
         
           But
           in
           my
           City
           ,
           Roof
           ,
           my
           soul
           received
           ,
        
         
           For
           two
           blest
           years
           my
           darling
           Iason
           lived
           .
        
         
           Forc'd
           the
           third
           Summer
           to
           a
           sad
           Farewel
           ,
        
         
           Mixt
           with
           his
           Tears
           these
           parting
           Accents
           fell
           .
        
         
           Do
           not
           at
           our
           divided
           Fates
           repine
           ,
        
         
           Thine
           I
           depart
           ,
           to
           return
           ever
           Thine
           .
        
         
           May
           our
           yet
           unborn
           pledge
           live
           long
           ,
           to
           prove
        
         
           The
           object
           of
           its
           Rival
           Parents
           Love
           ,
        
         
         
           'Twixt
           sighs
           and
           Tears
           ,
           thro'
           those
           false
           gales
           did
           pour
        
         
           These
           falser
           shours
           ,
           till
           grief
           could
           speak
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           You
           were
           the
           last
           the
           fatal
           Argo
           reacht
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           swelling
           Sails
           th'
           or●hasty
           winds
           had
           stretcht
           .
        
         
           The
           furrowing
           Keel
           the
           Seas
           green
           surface
           plough'd
           :
        
         
           You
           to
           the
           Shore
           ,
           toth
           '
           Seas
           I
           gazing
           bow'd
           ,
        
         
           In
           hast
           I
           ran
           to
           an
           adjacent
           Towr
           :
        
         
           My
           Tears
           ore
           all
           my
           face
           and
           bosom
           showr
           .
        
         
           There
           my
           wet
           Eyes
           my
           wafted
           soul
           pursue
           ,
        
         
           And
           ev'n
           beyond
           their
           natural
           opticks
           flew
           .
        
         
           A
           thousand
           Vows
           for
           your
           return
           I
           made
           ,
        
         
           You
           are
           return'd
           ,
           and
           they
           should
           now
           be
           pay'd
           .
        
         
           My
           Vows
           for
           curs'd
           Medeas
           Triumphs
           pay
           !
        
         
           My
           Heart
           to
           Grief
           ,
           my
           Love
           to
           Rage
           gives
           way
           .
        
         
         
           Shall
           I
           deck
           Temples
           ,
           and
           make
           Altars
           shine
           ,
        
         
           For
           that
           false
           man
           that
           lives
           ,
           but
           lives
           not
           mine
           !
        
         
           I
           never
           was
           secure
           .
           'T
           was
           my
           long
           dread
           ,
        
         
           You
           by
           your
           Fathers
           choice
           a
           Greek
           might
           wed
           .
        
         
           To
           no
           Greek
           Bride
           ,
           t'an
           unexpected
           Foe
           ,
        
         
           My
           wounds
           ,
           I
           t'
           a
           Barbarian
           Harlot
           owe
           :
        
         
           One
           who
           by
           Spells
           ,
           &
           Herbs
           does
           hearts
           surprize
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           are
           her
           slaves
           the
           Trophies
           of
           her
           Eyes
           .
        
         
           She
           from
           her
           course
           the
           strugling
           Moon
           would
           hold
           ,
        
         
           The
           Sun
           himself
           ,
           in
           Magick
           shades
           infold
           .
        
         
           She
           curbs
           the
           Waves
           ,
           and
           stops
           the
           rapid
           Floods
           ,
        
         
           And
           from
           their
           seats
           removes
           whole
           Rocks
           and
           Woods
           .
        
         
           With
           her
           dishevell'd
           Hair
           the
           wandring
           Hag
        
         
           Does
           half-burnt
           Bones
           from
           their
           warm
           Ashes
           drag
           .
        
         
           In
           moulten
           wax
           ,
           tho'
           absent
           ,
           kills
           by
           Art
           ,
        
         
           Arm'd
           with
           her
           Needle
           ,
           goar
           's
           a
           tortur'd
           Heart
           .
        
         
         
           Nay
           ,
           what
           Desert
           and
           Form
           should
           only
           move
           ,
        
         
           By
           Philters
           she
           secures
           her
           Iasons
           Love.
        
         
           How
           can
           you
           doat
           on
           such
           Infernal
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           And
           sleep
           securely
           in
           a
           Syrens
           Arms
           ?
        
         
           You
           ,
           as
           the
           Bulls
           ,
           she
           does
           to
           '
           her
           Yoke
           subdue
           ,
        
         
           And
           as
           she
           tam'd
           the
           Dragons
           ,
           Conquers
           you
           .
        
         
           Though
           your
           great
           Deeds
           ,
           and
           no
           less
           Race
           you
           boast
           ,
        
         
           Linkt
           to
           that
           Fiend
           your
           sullied
           Fame
           is
           lost
           .
        
         
           Nay
           by
           the
           censuring
           World
           't
           is
           justly
           thought
           ,
        
         
           Your
           Conquests
           by
           her
           Sorceries
           were
           wrought
           ;
        
         
           And
           the
           Phryxean
           Ram's
           Triumphant
           Oar
           ,
        
         
           They
           say
           ,
           not
           Iason
           ,
           but
           Medea
           bore
           .
        
         
           This
           Northren
           Bride
           your
           Parents
           disapprove
           :
        
         
           Consult
           your
           Duty
           in
           your
           Nobler
           Love.
        
         
           Let
           some
           wild
           Scythian
           her
           loath'd
           bed
           possess
           ,
        
         
           A
           Mistress
           only
           fit
           for
           Savages
           .
        
         
         
           Iason
           more
           false
           ,
           more
           changeable
           than
           wind
           ,
        
         
           Have
           Vows
           no
           weight
           ,
           and
           Oaths
           no
           pow'r
           to
           bind
           ?
        
         
           Mine
           you
           departed
           ;
           ah
           ,
           return
           mine
           too
           ,
        
         
           Let
           my
           kind
           Arms
           their
           long
           lost
           Scenes
           renew
           .
        
         
           If
           high
           Birth
           ,
           and
           great
           Names
           your
           Heart
           can
           turn
           ,
        
         
           Know
           ,
           I
           'm
           the
           Royal
           Thoas
           Daughter
           born
           .
        
         
           Bacchus
           my
           Grandsire
           is
           ,
           whose
           Bride
           divine
           ,
        
         
           All
           lesser
           Constellations
           does
           out
           shine
           .
        
         
           My
           Dow'r
           These
           and
           my
           Fertil
           Lemnos
           make
           ,
        
         
           All
           these
           ,
           and
           me
           thy
           Equal
           Title
           take
           .
        
         
           Nay
           I
           'me
           a
           Mother
           :
           a
           kind
           Father
           be
           ,
        
         
           And
           soften
           all
           the
           pains
           I
           've
           born
           for
           thee
           .
        
         
           Yes
           Heaven
           with
           Twins
           has
           blest
           our
           Genial
           Bed
           ;
        
         
           And
           would
           you
           in
           their
           Looks
           their
           Father
           read
           ,
        
         
           His
           treacherous
           smiles
           they
           are
           too
           young
           to
           wear
           ,
        
         
           In
           all
           things
           else
           you
           'l
           find
           your
           picture
           there
           ;
        
         
         
           I
           'had
           sent
           those
           Envoys
           in
           these
           Letters
           stead
           ,
        
         
           Both
           for
           their
           own
           and
           Mothers
           wrongs
           to
           plead
           .
        
         
           Had
           not
           their
           Stepdames
           Murders
           bid
           e'm
           stay
           ,
        
         
           Too
           dear
           a
           Treasure
           for
           that
           Monsters
           prey
           .
        
         
           Would
           her
           deaf
           Rage
           that
           rent
           her
           Brother's
           Bones
           ,
        
         
           Spare
           my
           young
           blood
           ,
           or
           hear
           their
           tenderer
           Groans
           ?
        
         
           Yet
           in
           your
           Arms
           this
           dearer
           Traitress
           lies
           ;
        
         
           Above
           my
           truth
           ,
           you
           this
           false
           Poysoner
           prize
           .
        
         
           This
           mean
           Adultrate
           wretch
           was
           basely
           kind
           ;
        
         
           Loves
           Sacred
           Lamp
           our
           chast
           embraces
           ioyn'd
           .
        
         
           Her
           Father
           she
           betray'd
           ,
           mine
           lives
           by
           me
           ,
        
         
           I
           Lemnos
           Pride
           ,
           she
           Colchos
           Infamy
           .
        
         
           And
           thus
           her
           guilt
           my
           Piety
           outvies
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           with
           her
           Crimes
           her
           Dow'r
           your
           Heart
           she
           buyes
           .
        
         
         
           False
           man
           ,
           I
           blame
           ,
           not
           wonder
           at
           the
           Rage
        
         
           O'
           th'
           Lemnian
           Dames
           :
           Wrongs
           do
           all
           Arms
           engage
           .
        
         
           Suppose
           in
           vengeance
           to
           your
           Guilt
           ,
           just
           Heav'n
        
         
           Had
           on
           my
           Shore
           the
           perjur'd
           Iason
           driven
           ;
        
         
           Whilst
           I
           with
           my
           young
           Twins
           to
           meet
           you
           came
           ,
        
         
           And
           made
           you
           call
           on
           Rocks
           to
           hide
           your
           shame
           .
        
         
           How
           could
           you
           look
           upon
           my
           Sons
           and
           Me
           ?
        
         
           Traytor
           ,
           what
           Pains
           ,
           what
           Death
           too
           bad
           for
           Thee
           ?
        
         
           Perhaps
           indeed
           I
           Iason
           had
           not
           hurt
           ,
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           my
           mercy
           more
           than
           his
           Desert
           :
        
         
           The
           Harlots
           blood
           had
           sprinkled
           all
           the
           Place
           ,
        
         
           Dash't
           in
           your
           faithless
           ,
           and
           once
           charming
           Face
           .
        
         
           I
           to
           Medea
           ,
           should
           Medea
           prove
           ,
        
         
           And
           if
           Iove
           hears
           the
           pray'rs
           of
           injur'd
           Love
           ,
        
         
           May
           that
           loath'd
           Hag
           that
           has
           my
           Bed
           enjoy'd
           ;
        
         
           Be
           by
           my
           Fate
           ,
           and
           her
           own
           Arts
           destroy'd
           .
        
         
           Like
           Me
           a
           Mother
           ,
           and
           a
           Wife
           forlorn
           ,
        
         
           〈◊〉
           from
           her
           Ravish't
           Lord
           ,
           and
           Children
           torn
           .
        
         
         
           May
           her
           ill
           gotten
           Trophies
           never
           last
           ,
        
         
           But
           round
           the
           World
           be
           th'
           hunted
           Monster
           chac'd
           .
        
         
           Those
           Dooms
           her
           Sire
           ,
           and
           murder'd
           Brother
           met
           ,
        
         
           May
           she
           t'
           her
           Husband
           and
           her
           Sons
           repeat
           .
        
         
           Driv'n
           from
           the
           World
           ,
           let
           her
           attempt
           the
           skies
           ,
        
         
           Till
           in
           Despair
           by
           her
           own
           hand
           she
           dies
           .
        
         
           Thus
           wrong'd
           Thoantias
           prays
           ,
           your
           Lives
           curst
           Remnant
           lead
           ,
        
         
           An
           Execrable
           Pair
           in
           a
           Detested
           Bed.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           MEDEA
           TO
           JASON
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           TATE
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Jason
             arrives
             with
             his
             Companions
             at
             Cho'chos
             where
             the
             Golden
             Fleece
             was
             kept
             ,
             which
             before
             he
             can
             obtain
             ,
             he
             is
             to
             undertake
             several
             Adventures
             ;
             first
             to
             yoke
             the
             Wild
             Bulls
             ,
             then
             to
             sow
             the
             Serpents
             Teeth
             ,
             from
             whence
             should
             instantly
             rise
             an
             Army
             ,
             with
             which
             he
             must
             encounter
             ;
             and
             lastly
             ,
             to
             make
             his
             passage
             by
             the
             Dragon
             that
             never
             slept
             .
             In
             order
             to
             this
             ,
             he
             solicits
             Medea
             Daughter
             to
             the
             King
             ,
             and
             skilful
             in
             Charms
             ,
             by
             whose
             assistance
             (
             on
             Promise
             of
             Love
             )
             he
             gains
             the
             Prize
             .
             Then
             flies
             with
             her
             ;
             the
             King
             pursues
             them
             ,
             Medea
             kills
             her
             little
             Brother
             ,
             scatters
             his
             Limbs
             ,
             and
             
             whilst
             the
             King
             stays
             to
             gather
             them
             up
             ,
             escapes
             with
             her
             Lover
             into
             Thessaly
             ;
             where
             she
             restores
             decrepit
             Aeson
             to
             his
             Youth
             .
             On
             the
             same
             promise
             perswades
             Pelias
             his
             Daughters
             to
             let
             out
             their
             Fathers
             Blood
             ,
             but
             deceitfully
             leaves
             them
             Guilty
             of
             Parricide
             .
             For
             this
             and
             other
             Crimes
             ,
             Jason
             casts
             her
             off
             :
             Marries
             Crëusa
             Daughter
             to
             Creon
             King
             of
             Corinth
             ,
             on
             which
             the
             enrag'd
             Medea
             ,
             according
             to
             the
             various
             Transports
             of
             her
             Passion
             ,
             writes
             this
             complaining
             ,
             soothing
             and
             menacing
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           YEt
           I
           found
           leisure
           ,
           though
           a
           Queen
           ,
           to
           free
        
         
           By
           Magick
           Arts
           thy
           Grecian
           Friends
           ,
           &
           Thee
           :
        
         
           The
           Fates
           shou'd
           then
           have
           finisht
           with
           my
           Reign
           ,
        
         
           The
           Life
           that
           since
           was
           one
           continued
           Pain
           .
        
         
           Who
           wou'd
           have
           dreamt
           the
           Youth
           of
           distant
           Greece
           ,
        
         
           Shou'd
           e're
           have
           sail'd
           to
           seize
           the
           Phrygian
           Fleece
           !
        
         
           That
           th'
           Argo
           shou'd
           in
           View
           of
           Cholchos
           Ride
           !
        
         
           A
           Greecian
           Army
           stem
           the
           Phasian
           Tide
           !
        
         
           Why
           were
           those
           snares
           ,
           thy
           Locks
           ,
           so
           tempting
           made
           !
        
         
           A
           Tongue
           so
           False
           ,
           so
           pow'rful
           to
           perswade
           !
        
         
         
           No
           doubt
           but
           He
           that
           had
           so
           rashly
           sought
        
         
           Our
           Shore
           ,
           with
           the
           fierce
           Bulls
           unspell'd
           had
           fought
           ,
        
         
           And
           fondly
           too
           th'
           Arms-bearing
           Seed
           had
           sown
           ,
        
         
           'Till
           by
           the
           Crop
           the
           Tiller
           were
           orethrown
           .
        
         
           How
           many
           Frauds
           had
           then
           expir'd
           with
           Thee
           !
        
         
           As
           many
           killing
           griefs
           remov'd
           from
           me
           !
        
         
           'T
           is
           some
           Relief
           when
           ill
           returns
           are
           made
           ,
        
         
           With
           Favours
           done
           ,
           th'
           Ingrateful
           to
           upbraid
           ;
        
         
           This
           Triumph
           will
           afford
           some
           little
           Ease
           ,
        
         
           False
           Iason
           leaves
           me
           This
           —
        
         
           When
           first
           your
           doubtful
           Vessel
           reacht
           our
           Port
           ,
        
         
           And
           you
           had
           Entrance
           to
           my
           Fathers
           Court
           :
        
         
           There
           was
           I
           then
           ,
           what
           now
           your
           new
           Bride
           's
           here
           ,
        
         
           My
           Royal
           Father
           might
           with
           her's
           compare
           .
        
         
           With
           Princely
           Pomp
           was
           your
           arrival
           grac't
           ,
        
         
           The
           meanest
           Greek
           on
           Tyrian
           Beds
           we
           plac't
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           first
           I
           gaz'd
           my
           Liberty
           away
           !
        
         
           And
           date
           my
           Ruin
           from
           that
           fatal
           day
           !
        
         
           Fate
           pusht
           me
           on
           ,
           &
           with
           your
           Charms
           combin'd
           ;
        
         
           I
           view'd
           your
           sparkling
           Eyes
           'till
           I
           was
           blind
           .
        
         
           You
           soon
           perceiv'd
           ,
           for
           who
           cou'd
           ever
           hide
        
         
           A
           flame
           that
           by
           its
           own
           Light
           is
           descry'd
           ?
        
         
           But
           now
           thy
           Task
           's
           propos'd
           ,
           &
           thou
           must
           tame
        
         
           The
           Bulls
           with
           brazen
           Hoofs
           ,
           and
           Breath
           of
           Flame
           .
        
         
           With
           these
           the
           fatal
           field
           thou
           art
           to
           Plow
           ▪
        
         
           From
           whence
           a
           suddain
           Host
           of
           Foes
           must
           grow
           .
        
         
           Those
           dangers
           past
           ,
           still
           to
           the
           golden
           Prey
        
         
           The
           baleful
           fiery
           Dragon
           guards
           the
           Way
           .
        
         
           Thus
           spake
           the
           King
           ;
           your
           Knights
           start
           from
           the
           Feast
           ,
        
         
           And
           ev'n
           your
           cheeks
           a
           pale
           despair
           confest
           .
        
         
           Where
           then
           was
           your
           ador'd
           
           Crëusa's
           Dow'r
           ?
        
         
           And
           where
           her
           Father
           
           Creon's
           boasted
           Pow'r
           ?
        
         
         
           Sad
           went'st
           thou
           forth
           ;
           my
           pitying
           Eyes
           persue
           ,
        
         
           I
           sigh'd
           ,
           and
           after
           sent
           a
           soft
           Adieu
           !
        
         
           In
           restless
           Tears
           I
           spent
           that
           tedious
           night
           ,
        
         
           Presenting
           still
           thy
           dangers
           to
           my
           sight
           ;
        
         
           The
           Savage
           Bulls
           and
           more
           the
           Savage
           Host
           ,
        
         
           But
           th'
           horrid
           Serpent
           did
           afright
           me
           most
           !
        
         
           Thus
           tost
           with
           Fear
           and
           Love
           ,
           (
           Fear
           swell'd
           the
           Flame
           )
        
         
           My
           Sister
           early
           to
           my
           Apartment
           came
           ;
        
         
           Sad
           and
           dejected
           she
           surpriz'd
           me
           There
           ,
        
         
           With
           Eyes
           distilling
           and
           dishevelled
           Hair
           ,
        
         
           On
           your
           behalf
           she
           sought
           me
           ,
           nor
           cou'd
           crave
        
         
           My
           Aid
           for
           you
           ,
           so
           freely
           as
           I
           gave
           !
        
         
           A
           Grove
           there
           is
           ,
           an
           awful
           gloomy
           shade
           ,
        
         
           Too
           close
           for
           ev'n
           the
           Sun
           himself
           t'
           invade
           ;
        
         
           These
           Woods
           with
           great
           
           Diana's
           Fane
           we
           grac't
           ,
        
         
           I'
           th'
           midst
           the
           Goddess
           on
           high
           Tripods
           plac't
           .
        
         
           There
           (
           if
           that
           place
           you
           can
           remember
           yet
           ,
        
         
           Who
           have
           forgotten
           Me
           )
           't
           was
           there
           we
           met
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           thus
           in
           soft
           deluding
           sounds
           you
           said
           —
        
         
           "
           Take
           pitty
           on
           our
           sufferings
           ,
           Royal
           Maid
           !
        
         
           "
           Rest
           pleas'd
           ,
           Thou
           hast
           the
           Pow'r
           to
           Kill
           ;
           but
           give
        
         
           "
           Proofs
           of
           Diviner
           Might
           ,
           and
           make
           us
           Live
           !
        
         
           "
           By
           our
           distresses
           (
           which
           thy
           Art
           alone
           ,
        
         
           "
           Has
           Pow'r
           to
           succour
           )
           ,
           By
           th'
           all-seeing
           Sun
           ,
        
         
           "
           By
           the
           Chast
           Deity
           that
           Governs
           Here
           ,
        
         
           "
           And
           what
           ere
           else
           you
           Sacred
           hold
           or
           Dear
           ,
        
         
           "
           Take
           pity
           on
           our
           Youth
           ,
           and
           bind
           us
           still
        
         
           "
           Eternal
           servants
           to
           
           Medea's
           Will
           !
        
         
           "
           And
           if
           a
           Strangers
           Form
           can
           touch
           your
           mind
           ,
        
         
           "
           (
           If
           such
           blest
           Fate
           was
           ere
           for
           me
           design'd
           !
           )
        
         
           "
           This
           Flesh
           to
           Dust
           dissolve
           ,
           this
           Spirit
           to
           Air
           ,
        
         
           "
           When
           I
           think
           any
           but
           Medea
           Fair.
        
         
           "
           Be
           Conscious
           Iuno
           ,
           witness
           to
           my
           Vow
           ,
        
         
           "
           And
           this
           dread
           Goddess
           at
           whose
           Shrine
           we
           Bow.
        
         
           Your
           Charming
           Tongue
           stopt
           here
           ,
           &
           left
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           To
           be
           by
           yet
           more
           powerful
           Tears
           exprest
           .
        
         
         
           I
           yield
           —
           and
           by
           my
           Art
           instruct
           you
           now
           ,
        
         
           To
           yoak
           the
           Brass-hooft
           Bulls
           ,
           and
           make
           'em
           Plow
           ,
        
         
           Then
           with
           a
           daring
           Hand
           you
           sow
           the
           Field
           ,
        
         
           That
           for
           an
           Harvest
           do's
           an
           Army
           yield
           ;
        
         
           Ev'n
           I
           lookt
           pale
           ,
           that
           gave
           the
           powerful
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           To
           see
           the
           wondrous
           Crop
           of
           shining
           Arms
           !
        
         
           Till
           th'
           Earth-born
           Brothers
           in
           fierce
           battle
           join'd
           ,
        
         
           Their
           suddain
           Lives
           more
           suddainly
           resign'd
           :
        
         
           The
           Serpent
           next
           ,
           a
           yet
           more
           dangerous
           toil
           ,
        
         
           With
           scaly
           Bosom
           Plows
           the
           yielding
           Soil
           ,
        
         
           Oreshades
           the
           Field
           with
           vast
           expanded
           wings
           ,
        
         
           And
           brandishes
           in
           Air
           his
           threatning
           Stings
           !
        
         
           Where
           was
           Crëusa
           at
           this
           needful
           Hour
           ?
           (
           Dowr
           ?
        
         
           Where
           then
           were
           her
           fam'd
           Charms
           &
           matchless
           Dowr
           ?
        
         
           Medea
           ,
           that
           Medea
           that
           is
           now
        
         
           Despis'd
           ,
           thought
           Poor
           ,
           held
           guilty
           too
           by
           You
           ,
        
         
         
           'T
           was
           she
           that
           Charm'd
           the
           wakeful
           Dragons
           sight
           ,
        
         
           Gave
           you
           the
           Fleece
           ,
           and
           then
           secur'd
           your
           Flight
           :
        
         
           To
           merit
           you
           what
           cou'd
           I
           more
           have
           done
           ?
        
         
           My
           Father
           I
           betray
           ,
           my
           Country
           shun
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           Hazards
           of
           an
           Exile
           run
           !
        
         
           Tho'
           ,
           whilst
           I
           yield
           me
           thus
           a
           Robbers
           Prize
           ,
        
         
           My
           tender
           Mother
           in
           my
           Absence
           dies
           ,
        
         
           And
           at
           her
           Feet
           my
           breathless
           Sister
           lies
           .
        
         
           Why
           left
           I
           not
           my
           Brother
           too
           ?
           —
           cold
           fear
        
         
           Arrests
           my
           Hand
           ,
           and
           I
           must
           finish
           Here
           !
        
         
           This
           Hand
           that
           tore
           the
           Infant
           in
           our
           Flight
           ,
        
         
           What
           then
           it
           dar'd
           to
           Act
           ,
           dreads
           now
           to
           Write
           .
        
         
           To
           the
           rough
           Seas
           undaunted
           I
           repair
           ,
        
         
           For
           after
           Guilt
           ,
           what
           can
           a
           Woman
           Fear
           ?
        
         
           Why
           scap't
           our
           Crimes
           those
           Seas
           ?
           we
           shou'd
           have
           dy'd
           ;
        
         
           For
           falsehood
           Thou
           ,
           and
           I
           for
           Parricide
           .
        
         
         
           The
           justling
           Isles
           shou'd
           there
           have
           dashtour
           Bones
           ,
        
         
           And
           hung
           us
           piece-meal
           on
           the
           ragged
           stones
           ;
        
         
           Or
           Scylla
           gorg'd
           us
           in
           her
           rav'nous
           Den
           ,
        
         
           Wrong'd
           Scylla
           thus
           shou'd
           use
           ingrateful
           Men
           !
        
         
           Charybdis
           too
           shou'd
           in
           our
           Fate
           have
           shar'd
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           ought
           of
           our
           sad
           wreck
           her
           Whirlpool
           spar'd
           .
        
         
           Yet
           safe
           we
           reach
           your
           Shore
           ;
           the
           Phrygian
           Fleece
        
         
           Is
           made
           an
           Off'ring
           to
           the
           Gods
           of
           Greece
           .
        
         
           The
           Pelian
           Daughters
           pious
           Bloody
           Deed
        
         
           I
           pass
           ,
           that
           rashly
           made
           their
           Father
           bleed
           ;
        
         
           Your
           safety
           't
           was
           that
           drew
           me
           to
           this
           Fraud
           ,
        
         
           The
           Guilt
           that
           Others
           Blame
           ,
           you
           shou'd
           Applaud
           !
        
         
           But
           stead
           of
           Thanks
           ,
           your
           Court
           I
           am
           Forbid
           :
        
         
           Your self
           forbad
           me
           ,
           faithless
           Iason
           did
           !
        
         
           With
           none
           but
           my
           Two
           Infants
           I
           depart
           ,
        
         
           And
           
           Iason's
           Form
           that
           nere
           forsakes
           my
           Heart
           ;
        
         
         
           At
           length
           thy
           Rev'ling
           Nuptial
           Songs
           surprize
        
         
           My
           wounded
           Ear
           ,
           thy
           Nuptial
           Torch
           my
           Eyes
           .
        
         
           The
           Rabble
           shout
           ,
           the
           Clamour
           nearer
           drew
           ,
        
         
           And
           as
           it
           came
           more
           near
           ,
           more
           dreadful
           grew
           :
        
         
           My
           Servants
           weep
           in
           corners
           and
           refuse
        
         
           Th'
           ingrateful
           task
           of
           such
           unwelcome
           News
           !
        
         
           I
           yet
           forbear
           t'
           enquire
           ,
           tho
           still
           my
           Breast
        
         
           The
           dreadful
           Apprehensions
           did
           suggest
           .
        
         
           My
           youngest
           Bo●
           now
           from
           the
           Window
           spy'd
        
         
           The
           coming
           Pomp
           ,
           and
           jocund
           thus
           he
           cry'd
           ,
        
         
           "
           Look
           ,
           Mother
           ,
           look
           !
           see
           where
           my
           Father
           Rides
           ,
        
         
           "
           With
           shining
           Reins
           his
           golden
           Chariot
           Guides
           :
        
         
           At
           this
           ,
           my
           pale
           forsaken
           Breast
           I
           tore
           ,
        
         
           Norspar'd
           the
           Face
           whose
           Beauties
           charm
           no
           more
        
         
           Alas
           !
           what
           did
           I
           spare
           ,
           scarce
           cou'd
           I
           spare
        
         
           My
           Honour
           ,
           scarcely
           thee
           ,
           cou'd
           scarce
           forbear
        
         
           To
           force
           my
           Passage
           to
           thy
           Chariot
           now
           ,
        
         
           And
           tear
           the
           Garland
           from
           thy
           perjur'd
           Brow.
        
         
         
           Offended
           Father
           ,
           now
           thy
           griefs
           discharge
           !
        
         
           My
           Brothers
           Blood
           is
           now
           reveng'd
           at
           large
           .
        
         
           The
           man
           (
           for
           whom
           I
           fled
           and
           injur'd
           Thee
           !
        
         
           Whose
           Love
           sole
           comfort
           of
           my
           Flight
           cou'd
           be
           )
        
         
           Th'
           ingrateful
           Man
           has
           now
           forsaken
           Me
           !
        
         
           I
           tam'd
           the
           Bulls
           ,
           and
           cou'd
           the
           Serpent
           bind
           ,
        
         
           But
           for
           perfidious
           Love
           no
           spell
           can
           find
           :
        
         
           The
           Dragons
           baleful
           Fires
           my
           Arts
           supprest
           ,
        
         
           But
           not
           the
           Flames
           that
           rage
           within
           my
           breast
           .
        
         
           In
           Love
           my
           powerfull'st
           Herbs
           are
           useless
           made
           ,
        
         
           In
           vain
           is
           Hecat
           summon'd
           to
           my
           Aid
           ;
        
         
           I
           sigh
           the
           Day
           ,
           the
           Night
           in
           watches
           spend
           ,
        
         
           No
           slumbers
           on
           my
           careful
           brows
           descend
           :
        
         
           With
           Poppies
           juice
           in
           vain
           my
           Eyes
           I
           steep
           ,
        
         
           And
           try
           the
           Charm
           that
           made
           the
           Dragon
           sleep
           .
        
         
           I
           only
           reap
           no
           Profit
           from
           my
           Charms
           !
        
         
           They
           sav'd
           ,
           but
           sav'd
           Thee
           for
           my
           Rivals
           Arms
           !
        
         
         
           There
           ,
           'cause
           you
           know
           the
           Theam
           will
           grateful
           be
           ,
        
         
           Perhaps
           y'
           are
           so
           Unjust
           to'exclaim
           on
           me
           !
        
         
           To
           tax
           my
           Manners
           ,
           Rally
           on
           my
           Face
           ,
        
         
           And
           make
           th'
           Adultress
           sport
           with
           my
           disgrace
           !
        
         
           Laugh
           on
           Proud
           Dame
           ;
           but
           know
           thy
           Fate
           is
           nigh
           ,
        
         
           When
           thou
           shalt
           yet
           more
           wretched
           be
           than
           I
           !
        
         
           When
           wrong'd
           Medea
           unreveng'd
           sits
           still
           ,
        
         
           Sword
           ,
           Flame
           ,
           and
           Poyson
           ,
           have
           forgot
           to
           Kill
           .
        
         
           If
           Pray'rs
           the
           flinty
           
           Iason's
           breast
           can
           move
           ,
        
         
           My
           just
           Complaint
           will
           sure
           successful
           prove
           .
        
         
           Stretcht
           at
           thy
           Feet
           a
           suppliant
           Princess
           see
           ;
        
         
           Such
           was
           thy
           Posture
           ,
           when
           she
           Pitty'd
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           And
           tho
           a
           Wife
           's
           discarded
           Title
           fail
           ,
        
         
           My
           Infants
           still
           are
           Thine
           ,
           let
           them
           prevail
           !
        
         
           So
           much
           th'
           are
           Thine
           ,
           so
           much
           thy
           Likeness
           bear
           ,
        
         
           Each
           Look
           I
           cast
           ,
           is
           follow'd
           by
           a
           Tear.
        
         
           Now
           by
           the
           Gods
           ,
           by
           all
           our
           past
           Delights
           ,
        
         
           By
           those
           dear
           Pledges
           of
           our
           am'rous
           Nights
           ,
        
         
         
           Restore
           me
           to
           thy
           Love
           ;
           I
           claim
           my
           Due
           ,
        
         
           Be
           to
           my
           Merit
           ,
           and
           thy
           Promise
           True.
        
         
           I
           ask
           Thee
           not
           what
           I
           perform'd
           for
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           To
           set
           me
           from
           fierce
           Bulls
           and
           Serpents
           Free
           ;
        
         
           I
           only
           crave
           thy
           Love
           ,
           thy
           Love
           restore
           ,
        
         
           For
           which
           I
           've
           done
           so
           much
           ,
           and
           suffer'd
           more
           .
        
         
           Do'st
           Thou
           demand
           a
           Dow'r
           ?
           —
           't
           was
           paid
           that
           day
        
         
           When
           thou
           didst
           bear
           the
           Golden
           Fleece
           away
           :
        
         
           The
           Life
           's
           my
           Dow'r
           ,
           and
           thy
           dear
           Followers
           health
           ,
        
         
           The
           Youth
           of
           Greece
           ;
           weigh
           these
           with
           
           Creon's
           wealth
           .
        
         
           To
           Me
           thou
           ow'st
           that
           thou
           art
           
           Creon's
           Heir
           ,
        
         
           That
           now
           thou
           liv'st
           to
           call
           Creusa
           ,
           Fair
           !
        
         
           You
           've
           wrong'd
           me
           All
           ,
           and
           on
           you
           All
           —
           but
           hold
           ,
        
         
           I
           form
           Revenge
           too
           mighty
           to
           be
           told
           !
        
         
           My
           thoughts
           are
           now
           toth
           '
           utmost
           Ruin
           bent
           !
        
         
           Perhaps
           I
           shall
           the
           fatal
           Rage
           repent
           ,
        
         
         
           But
           on
           —
           for
           I
           (
           what
           e're
           the
           mischief
           be
           )
        
         
           Shall
           less
           Repent
           than
           that
           I
           trusted
           Thee
           !
        
         
           The
           God
           alone
           that
           Rages
           in
           my
           Breast
           ,
        
         
           Can
           see
           the
           dark
           revenge
           my
           thoughts
           suggest
           ;
        
         
           I
           only
           know
           't
           will
           soon
           effected
           be
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           it
           comes
           ,
           be
           Vast
           and
           Worthy
           Me.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           PHAEDRA
           TO
           HIPPOLYTUS
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           OTWAY
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Theseus
             ,
             the
             Son
             of
             Aegeus
             ,
             having
             slain
             the
             Minotaur
             ,
             promised
             to
             Ariadne
             the
             Daughter
             of
             Minos
             and
             Pasiphäe
             ,
             for
             the
             assistance
             which
             she
             gave
             him
             ,
             to
             carry
             her
             home
             with
             him
             ,
             and
             make
             her
             his
             Wife
             :
             so
             together
             with
             her
             Sister
             Phaedra
             ,
             they
             went
             on
             Board
             and
             sail'd
             to
             Chios
             ,
             where
             being
             warn'd
             by
             Bacchus
             ,
             he
             left
             Ariadne
             ,
             and
             Married
             her
             Sister
             Phaedra
             ,
             who
             afterwards
             in
             Theseus
             her
             Husbands
             Absence
             ,
             fell
             in
             Love
             with
             Hippolytus
             her
             Son
             in
             Law
             ,
             who
             had
             Vow'd
             Caelibacy
             ,
             and
             was
             a
             Hunter
             :
             wherefore
             since
             she
             could
             not
             conveniently
             otherwise
             ;
             she
             chose
             by
             this
             Epistle
             to
             give
             him
             an
             Account
             of
             her
             Passion
             .
          
        
         
           IF
           Thou'
           rt
           unkind
           ,
           I
           ne're
           shall
           health
           Enjoy
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           much
           I
           wish
           to
           thee
           ,
           my
           Lovely
           Boy
           :
        
         
         
           Read
           this
           and
           reading
           how
           my
           soul
           is
           seis'd
           ,
        
         
           Rather
           than
           not
           be
           with
           my
           ruin
           pleas'd
           :
        
         
           Thus
           secrets
           safe
           to
           farthest
           Shoars
           may
           move
           ;
        
         
           By
           Letters
           Foes
           converse
           and
           learn
           to
           Love.
        
         
           Thrice
           my
           sad
           tale
           ,
           as
           I
           to
           tell
           it
           try'd
           ,
        
         
           Upon
           my
           faultring
           Tongue
           abortive
           dy'd
           :
        
         
           Long
           shame
           prevail'd
           ,
           nor
           could
           be
           conquer'd
           quite
           ,
        
         
           But
           what
           I
           blusht
           to
           speak
           ,
           Love
           made
           me
           write
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           dang'rous
           to
           resist
           the
           pow'r
           of
           Love
           ,
        
         
           The
           Gods
           obey
           him
           ,
           and
           he
           's
           King
           above
           :
        
         
           He
           clear'd
           the
           doubts
           that
           did
           my
           mind
           confound
           ,
        
         
           And
           promis'd
           me
           to
           bring
           Thee
           hither
           bound
           :
        
         
           Oh
           may
           he
           come
           ,
           and
           in
           that
           breast
           of
           thine
        
         
           Fix
           a
           kind
           Dart
           ,
           and
           make
           it
           flame
           like
           mine
           !
        
         
           Yet
           of
           my
           Wedlock
           Vows
           I
           'le
           loose
           no
           care
           ,
        
         
           Search
           back
           through
           all
           my
           fame
           ,
           Thou
           l't
           find
           it
           fair
           ▪
        
         
           But
           Love
           long
           breeding
           ,
           to
           worst
           pain
           does
           turn
           ;
        
         
           Outward
           unharm'd
           ,
           within
           ,
           within
           I
           burn
           !
        
         
         
           As
           the
           Young
           Bull
           or
           Courser
           yet
           untam'd
           ,
        
         
           When
           Yok't
           or
           Bridl'd
           first
           ,
           are
           pinch't
           &
           maim'd
           ;
        
         
           So
           my
           unpractic't
           heart
           in
           Love
           can
           find
        
         
           No
           rest
           ,
           th'
           unwonted
           weight
           so
           toyls
           my
           mind
           .
        
         
           When
           young
           ,
           loves
           pangs
           by
           Arts
           we
           may
           remove
           ,
        
         
           But
           in
           our
           riper
           years
           with
           rage
           we
           Love.
        
         
           To
           thee
           I
           yield
           then
           all
           my
           dear
           Renown
           ,
        
         
           And
           prithee
           let
           's
           together
           be
           undone
           .
        
         
           Who
           would
           not
           pluck
           the
           new
           blown
           blushing
           Rose
           ,
        
         
           Or
           the
           ripe
           Fruit
           that
           Courts
           him
           as
           it
           grows
           ?
        
         
           But
           if
           my
           Vertue
           hitherto
           has
           gain'd
        
         
           Esteem
           for
           spotless
           ,
           shall
           it
           now
           be
           stain'd
           ?
        
         
           Oh
           in
           thy
           Love
           I
           shall
           no
           hazard
           run
           ;
        
         
           'T
           is
           not
           a
           sin
           ,
           but
           when
           't
           is
           coursely
           done
           .
        
         
           And
           now
           should
           Iuno
           yield
           her
           Iove
           to
           me
           ,
        
         
           I
           'd
           quit
           that
           
             Iove
             ,
             Hippolytus
          
           ,
           for
           Thee
           :
        
         
           Believe
           me
           too
           with
           strange
           desires
           I
           change
           ,
        
         
           Amongst
           Wild
           Beasts
           I
           long
           with
           Thee
           to
           range
           ,
        
         
         
           To
           thy
           Delights
           and
           Delia
           I
           Encline
           ,
        
         
           Make
           her
           my
           Goddess
           too
           ,
           because
           she
           's
           thine
           :
        
         
           I
           long
           to
           know
           the
           Woods
           ,
           to
           drive
           the
           Deer
           ,
        
         
           And
           or'e
           the
           Mountains
           tops
           my
           Hounds
           to
           chear
           ,
        
         
           Shaking
           my
           Dart
           ,
           then
           ,
           the
           Chase
           ended
           ,
           lie
        
         
           Stretcht
           on
           the
           grass
           ,
           &
           would'st
           not
           Thou
           be
           by
           ?
        
         
           O●t
           in
           light
           Chariots
           I
           with
           pleasure
           ride
           ,
        
         
           And
           love
           my self
           the
           furious
           Steeds
           to
           guide
           .
        
         
           Now
           like
           a
           Bacchanal
           more
           wild
           I
           stray
           ,
        
         
           Or
           Old
           
           Cybele's
           Priests
           ,
           as
           mad
           as
           They
        
         
           When
           under
           
           Ida's
           Hill
           They
           Offrings
           pay
           :
        
         
           Ev'n
           mad
           as
           those
           the
           Deities
           of
           Night
        
         
           And
           Water
           ,
           Fauns
           and
           Dryards
           do
           afright
           :
        
         
           But
           still
           each
           little
           Interval
           I
           gain
           ,
        
         
           Easily
           find
           't
           is
           Love
           breeds
           all
           my
           pain
           :
        
         
           Sure
           on
           our
           Race
           Love
           like
           a
           Fate
           does
           fall
           ,
        
         
           And
           Venus
           will
           have
           Tribute
           of
           us
           all
           .
        
         
         
           Iove
           lov'd
           Europa
           ,
           whence
           my
           Father
           came
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           a
           Bull
           transform'd
           ,
           Enjoy'd
           the
           Dame
           :
        
         
           She
           ,
           like
           my
           Mother
           ,
           languisht
           to
           obtain
           ,
        
         
           And
           fill'd
           her
           Womb
           with
           shame
           as
           well
           as
           pain
           :
        
         
           The
           faithless
           Theseus
           by
           my
           Sisters
           Aid
        
         
           The
           Monster
           slew
           ,
           and
           a
           safe
           Conquest
           made
           :
        
         
           Now
           in
           that
           Family
           my
           right
           to
           save
           ,
        
         
           I
           am
           at
           last
           on
           the
           same
           tearms
           a
           slave
           :
        
         
           'T
           was
           fatal
           to
           my
           Sister
           and
           to
           me
           ,
        
         
           She
           lov'd
           thy
           Father
           ,
           but
           my
           choice
           was
           thee
           .
        
         
           Let
           Monuments
           of
           Triumph
           then
           be
           shown
        
         
           For
           two
           unhappy
           Nymphs
           by
           you
           undone
           .
        
         
           When
           first
           our
           Vows
           were
           at
           Eleusis
           pay'd
           ,
        
         
           Would
           I
           had
           in
           a
           Cretan
           Grave
           been
           laid
           ;
        
         
           'T
           was
           there
           Thou
           didst
           a
           perfect
           Conquest
           gain
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           Loves
           fierce
           Feavor
           rag'd
           in
           ev'ry
           vein
           ;
        
         
           White
           was
           thy
           Robe
           ,
           a
           Garland
           deck't
           thy
           Head
           ,
        
         
           A
           modest
           blush
           thy
           comely
           face
           orespread
           ,
        
         
         
           That
           face
           which
           may
           be
           terrible
           in
           Arms
           ,
        
         
           But
           Graceful
           seem'd
           to
           me
           ,
           and
           full
           of
           Charms
           :
        
         
           I
           Love
           the
           man
           whose
           fashion
           's
           least
           his
           care
           ,
        
         
           And
           hate
           my
           Sexes
           Coxcombs
           fine
           and
           fair
           ;
        
         
           For
           whil'st
           thus
           plain
           thy
           careless
           Locks
           let
           fly
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           unpolish't
           form
           is
           Beauty
           in
           my
           Eye
           :
        
         
           If
           thou
           but
           ride
           ,
           or
           shake
           the
           trembling
           Dart
           ,
        
         
           I
           fix
           my
           Eyes
           ,
           and
           wonder
           at
           thy
           Art
           :
        
         
           To
           see
           thee
           poise
           the
           Iav'lin
           ,
           moves
           delight
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           thou
           do'st
           is
           lovely
           in
           my
           sight
           :
        
         
           But
           to
           the
           Woods
           thy
           cruelty
           resign
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           treat
           it
           with
           so
           poor
           a
           life
           as
           mine
           :
        
         
           Must
           cold
           Diana
           be
           ador'd
           alone
           ?
        
         
           Must
           she
           have
           all
           thy
           Vows
           ,
           and
           Venus
           none
           ?
        
         
           That
           pleasure
           palls
           if
           't
           is
           Enjoy'd
           too
           long
           ,
        
         
           Love
           makes
           the
           weary
           firm
           ,
           the
           feeble
           strong
           .
        
         
           For
           
           Cyntbia's
           sake
           unbend
           and
           ease
           thy
           Bow
           ;
        
         
           Else
           to
           thy
           Arm
           't
           will
           weak
           and
           useless
           grow
           .
        
         
         
           Famous
           was
           Cephalus
           in
           Wood
           and
           Plain
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           him
           many
           a
           Boar
           and
           Pard
           was
           slain
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           to
           
           Aurora's
           Love
           he
           did
           encline
           ;
        
         
           Who
           wisely
           left
           Old
           Age
           for
           Youth
           like
           Thine
           .
        
         
           Under
           the
           spreading
           shades
           her
           Am'rous
           Boy
        
         
           The
           fair
           
             Adonis
             Venus
          
           could
           enjoy
           ,
        
         
           
           Atlanta's
           Love
           too
           Meleager
           sought
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           her
           Tribute
           paid
           of
           all
           he
           caught
           ;
        
         
           Be
           Thou
           and
           I
           the
           next
           blest
           Sylvan
           pair
           :
        
         
           Where
           Love
           's
           a
           Stranger
           Woods
           but
           Desarts
           are
           .
        
         
           With
           Thee
           through
           dang'rous
           ways
           unknown
           before
           ,
        
         
           I
           'le
           rove
           and
           fearless
           face
           the
           dreadful
           Boar.
        
         
           Between
           two
           Seas
           a
           little
           Isthmus
           lies
           ,
        
         
           Where
           on
           each
           side
           the
           beating
           Billows
           rise
           ,
        
         
           There
           in
           Trazena
           I
           thy
           Love
           will
           meet
           ,
        
         
           More
           blest
           and
           pleas'd
           than
           in
           my
           Native
           Crete
           .
        
         
         
           As
           we
           could
           wish
           ,
           Old
           Theseus
           is
           away
        
         
           At
           Thessaly
           ,
           where
           alwaies
           let
           him
           stay
        
         
           With
           his
           Perithöus
           ,
           whom
           well
           I
           see
        
         
           Prefer'd
           above
           Hippolytus
           or
           me
           .
        
         
           Nor
           has
           he
           only
           thus
           exprest
           his
           hate
           ;
        
         
           We
           both
           have
           suffer'd
           wrongs
           of
           mighty
           weight
           :
        
         
           My
           Brother
           first
           he
           cruelly
           did
           slay
        
         
           ●hen
           from
           my
           Sister
           falsely
           ran
           away
           ;
        
         
           And
           left
           expos'd
           to
           ev'ry
           Beast
           a
           prey
           .
        
         
           A
           Warlike
           Queen
           to
           thee
           thy
           Being
           gave
           ,
        
         
           A
           Mother
           worthy
           of
           a
           Son
           so
           brave
           ,
        
         
           From
           cruel
           Theseus
           yet
           her
           death
           did
           find
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           though
           she
           gave
           him
           Thee
           ,
           could
           make
           him
           kind
           .
        
         
           Unwedded
           too
           he
           murthered
           her
           in
           spight
           ,
        
         
           To
           Bastardize
           and
           Rob
           thee
           of
           thy
           Right
           :
        
         
           And
           if
           to
           wrong
           thee
           more
           ,
           two
           Sons
           Iv'e
           brought
           ,
        
         
           Believe
           it
           his
           ,
           and
           none
           of
           
           Phaedra's
           fault
           :
        
         
         
           Rather
           thou
           fairest
           Thing
           the
           Earth
           contains
           ,
        
         
           I
           wish
           at
           first
           '
           had
           dy'd
           of
           Mothers
           pains
           :
        
         
           How
           canst
           thou
           rev'rence
           then
           thy
           Fathers
           Bed
           ,
        
         
           From
           which
           himself
           so
           Abjectly
           is
           fled
           ?
        
         
           The
           thought
           afrights
           not
           me
           ,
           but
           me
           enflames
           ;
        
         
           Mother
           and
           son
           are
           notions
           ,
           very
           Names
        
         
           Of
           worn
           out
           Piety
           ,
           in
           fashion
           Then
        
         
           When
           Old
           dull
           Saturn
           Rul'd
           the
           Race
           of
           men
           :
        
         
           But
           braver
           Iove
           taught
           pleasure
           was
           no
           sin
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           his
           Sister
           did
           himself
           begin
           .
        
         
           Nearness
           of
           Blood
           ,
           and
           Kindred
           best
           we
           prove
           ,
        
         
           When
           we
           express
           it
           in
           the
           closest
           Love.
        
         
           Nor
           need
           we
           fear
           our
           Fault
           should
           be
           reveal'd
           ;
        
         
           'T
           will
           under
           near
           Relation
           be
           conceal'd
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           who
           hear
           our
           Loves
           ,
           with
           praise
           shall
           Crown
        
         
           A
           Mothers
           kindness
           to
           a
           grateful
           Son.
        
         
         
           No
           need
           at
           Midnight
           in
           the
           dark
           to
           stray
           ,
        
         
           T'
           unlock
           the
           Gates
           ,
           and
           cry
           ,
           my
           Love
           ,
           this
           way
           ,
        
         
           No
           busie
           Spies
           our
           pleasures
           to
           betray
           .
        
         
           But
           in
           one
           house
           ,
           as
           heretofore
           ,
           we
           'l
           live
           ,
        
         
           In
           publick
           ,
           kisses
           take
           ;
           in
           publick
           ,
           give
           :
        
         
           Though
           in
           my
           Bed
           Thou'
           rt
           seen
           ,
           't
           will
           gain
           Applause
        
         
           From
           all
           ,
           whilst
           none
           have
           sense
           to
           ghess
           the
           Cause
           :
        
         
           Only
           make
           hast
           ,
           and
           let
           this
           League
           be
           sign'd
           ;
        
         
           So
           may
           my
           Tyrant
           Love
           to
           thee
           be
           kind
           .
        
         
           For
           this
           I
           am
           an
           humble
           Suppliant
           grown
           ;
        
         
           Now
           where
           are
           all
           my
           boasts
           of
           Greatness
           gone
           ?
        
         
           I
           swore
           I
           ne're
           would
           yield
           ,
           resolv'd
           to
           ●ight
           ,
        
         
           Deceiv'd
           by
           Love
           that
           's
           seldom
           in
           the
           right
           ,
        
         
           Now
           on
           my
           own
           ,
           I
           crawl
           to
           clasp
           thy
           knees
           ;
        
         
           What
           's
           Decent
           no
           true
           Lover
           cares
           or
           sees
           :
        
         
           Shame
           ,
           like
           a
           beaten
           Souldier
           ,
           leaves
           the
           place
           ,
        
         
           But
           Beauties
           blushes
           still
           are
           in
           my
           face
           .
        
         
         
           For
           give
           this
           fond
           Confession
           which
           I
           make
           ,
        
         
           And
           then
           some
           pity
           on
           my
           suffrings
           take
           .
        
         
           What
           though
           midst
           Seas
           my
           Fathers
           Empire
           lies
           ?
        
         
           Though
           my
           Great
           Grandsire
           Thunder
           frō
           the
           skies
           ?
        
         
           What
           though
           my
           Fathers
           Sire
           in
           Beams
           drest
           gay
        
         
           Drives
           round
           the
           burning
           Chariot
           of
           the
           day
           ?
        
         
           Their
           Honour
           all
           in
           me
           to
           Love
           's
           a
           slave
           ,
        
         
           Then
           though
           thou
           wilt
           not
           me
           ,
           their
           Honour
           save
           :
        
         
           Ioves
           Famous
           Island
           Crete
           in
           Dow'r
           I
           'l
           bring
           ,
        
         
           And
           there
           shall
           my
           Hippolytus
           be
           King
           :
        
         
           For
           Venus
           sake
           then
           hear
           and
           grant
           my
           pray'r
           ,
        
         
           So
           may'st
           Thou
           never
           love
           a
           scornful
           fair
           ;
        
         
           In
           Fields
           so
           may
           Diana
           grace
           Thee
           still
           ,
        
         
           And
           every
           Wood
           afford
           thee
           Game
           to
           kill
           ;
        
         
           So
           may
           the
           Mountain
           Gods
           and
           Satyrs
           all
        
         
           Be
           kind
           ,
           so
           may
           the
           Boar
           before
           Thee
           fall
           ,
        
         
           So
           may
           the
           water-Nymphs
           in
           heat
           of
           day
           ,
        
         
           Though
           Thou
           their
           Sex
           despise
           ,
           they
           thirst
           allay
           .
        
         
         
           Millions
           of
           tears
           to
           these
           my
           prayrs
           I
           joyn
           ,
        
         
           Which
           as
           Thou
           read'st
           with
           those
           dear
           eyes
           of
           Thine
           ,
        
         
           Think
           that
           thou
           seest
           the
           streams
           that
           flow
           from
           mine
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           DIDO
           to
           AENEAS
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           DRYDEN
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Aeneas
             ,
             the
             Son
             of
             Venus
             and
             Anchises
             ,
             having
             at
             the
             Destruction
             of
             Troy
             ,
             saved
             his
             Gods
             ,
             his
             Father
             and
             Son
             Ascanius
             from
             the
             Fire
             ,
             put
             to
             Sea
             with
             twenty
             Sail
             of
             Ships
             ,
             and
             having
             bin
             long
             tost
             with
             Tempests
             ,
             was
             at
             last
             cast
             upon
             the
             Shore
             of
             Lybia
             ,
             where
             Queen
             Dido
             ,
             (
             flying
             from
             the
             Cruelty
             of
             Pigmalion
             her
             Brother
             ,
             who
             had
             Killed
             her
             Husband
             Sichaeus
             ,
             )
             had
             lately
             built
             Carthage
             .
             She
             entertained
             Aeneas
             and
             his
             Fleet
             with
             great
             civility
             ,
             fell
             passionately
             in
             Love
             with
             him
             ,
             and
             in
             the
             end
             denyed
             him
             not
             the
             last
             Favours
             .
             But
             Mercury
             admonishing
             Aeneas
             to
             go
             in
             search
             of
             Italy
             ,
             (
             a
             Kingdom
             promised
             to
             him
             by
             the
             Gods
             ,
             )
             he
             readily
             prepared
             to
             Obey
             him
             .
             Dido
             soon
             perceived
             it
             ,
             and
             having
             in
             vain
             try'd
             all
             other
             means
             to
             engage
             him
             to
             stay
             ,
             at
             last
             in
             Despair
             ,
             writes
             to
             him
             as
             follows
             .
          
        
         
           SO
           ,
           on
           
           Maeander's
           banks
           ,
           when
           death
           is
           nigh
           ,
        
         
           The
           mournful
           Swan
           sings
           her
           own
           Elegie
           .
        
         
         
           Not
           that
           I
           hope
           ,
           (
           for
           oh
           ,
           that
           hope
           were
           vain
           !
           )
        
         
           By
           words
           your
           lost
           affection
           to
           regain
           ;
        
         
           But
           having
           lost
           what
           ere
           was
           worth
           my
           care
           ,
        
         
           Why
           shou'd
           I
           fear
           to
           loose
           a
           dying
           pray'r
           ?
        
         
           'T
           is
           then
           resolv'd
           poor
           Dido
           must
           be
           left
           ,
        
         
           Of
           Life
           ,
           of
           Honour
           ,
           and
           of
           Love
           bereft
           !
        
         
           While
           you
           ,
           with
           loosen'd
           Sails
           &
           Vows
           ,
           prepar
           ▪
        
         
           To
           seek
           a
           Land
           that
           flies
           the
           Searchers
           care
           .
        
         
           Nor
           can
           my
           rising
           Tow'rs
           your
           flight
           restrain
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           my
           new
           Empire
           ,
           offer'd
           you
           in
           vain
           .
        
         
           Built
           Walls
           you
           shun
           ,
           unbuilt
           you
           seek
           ;
           that
           Land
           ▪
        
         
           Is
           yet
           to
           Conquer
           ;
           but
           you
           this
           Command
           .
        
         
           Suppose
           you
           Landed
           where
           your
           wish
           design'd
           ,
        
         
           Think
           what
           Reception
           Forreiners
           would
           find
           .
        
         
           What
           People
           is
           so
           void
           of
           common
           sence
           ,
        
         
           To
           Vote
           Succession
           from
           a
           Native
           Prince
           .
        
         
           Yet
           there
           new
           Scepters
           and
           new
           Loves
           you
           seek
           ▪
        
         
           New
           Vows
           to
           plight
           ,
           and
           plighted
           Vows
           to
           break
           ▪
        
         
         
           When
           will
           your
           Tow'rs
           the
           height
           of
           Carthage
           know
           ?
        
         
           Or
           when
           ,
           your
           eyes
           discern
           such
           crowds
           below
           ?
        
         
           If
           such
           a
           Town
           and
           Subjects
           you
           cou'd
           see
           ,
        
         
           Still
           wou'd
           you
           want
           a
           Wife
           who
           lov'd
           like
           me
           .
        
         
           For
           ,
           oh
           ,
           I
           burn
           ,
           like
           fires
           with
           incense
           bright
           ;
        
         
           Not
           holy
           Tapers
           flame
           with
           purer
           light
           :
        
         
           Aeneas
           is
           my
           thoughts
           perpetual
           Theme
           :
        
         
           Their
           daily
           longing
           ,
           and
           their
           nightly
           dream
           .
        
         
           Yet
           he
           ungreateful
           and
           obdurate
           still
           :
        
         
           Fool
           that
           I
           am
           to
           place
           my
           heart
           so
           ill
           !
        
         
           My self
           I
           cannot
           to
           my self
           restore
           :
        
         
           Still
           I
           complain
           ,
           and
           still
           I
           love
           him
           more
           .
        
         
           Have
           pity
           ,
           Cupid
           ,
           on
           my
           bleeding
           heart
           ;
        
         
           And
           pierce
           thy
           Brothers
           with
           an
           equal
           dart
           .
        
         
           I
           rave
           :
           nor
           canst
           thou
           Venus
           '
           offspring
           be
           ,
        
         
           Love's
           Mother
           cou'd
           not
           bear
           a
           Son
           like
           Thee
           .
        
         
         
           From
           harden'd
           Oak
           ,
           or
           from
           a
           Rocks
           cold
           womb
           ,
        
         
           At
           least
           thou
           art
           from
           some
           sierce
           Tygress
           come
           ,
        
         
           Or
           ,
           on
           rough
           Seas
           ,
           from
           their
           foundation
           torn
           ,
        
         
           Got
           by
           the
           winds
           ,
           and
           in
           a
           Tempest
           born
           :
        
         
           Like
           that
           which
           now
           thy
           trembling
           Sailors
           fear
           :
        
         
           Like
           that
           ,
           whose
           rage
           should
           still
           detain
           thee
           here
           .
        
         
           Behold
           how
           high
           the
           Foamy
           Billows
           ride
           !
        
         
           The
           winds
           and
           waves
           are
           on
           the
           juster
           side
           .
        
         
           To
           Winter
           weather
           ,
           and
           a
           stormy
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           I
           'll
           owe
           what
           rather
           I
           wou'd
           owe
           to
           thee
           .
        
         
           Death
           thou
           deserv'st
           from
           Heav'ns
           avenging
           Laws
           ;
        
         
           But
           I
           'm
           unwilling
           to
           become
           the
           cause
           .
        
         
           To
           shun
           my
           Love
           ,
           if
           thou
           wilt
           seek
           thy
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           a
           dear
           purchase
           ,
           and
           a
           costly
           hate
           .
        
         
           Stay
           but
           a
           little
           ,
           till
           the
           Tempest
           cease
           ;
        
         
           And
           the
           loud
           winds
           are
           lull'd
           into
           a
           peace
           .
        
         
           May
           all
           thy
           rage
           ,
           like
           theirs
           ,
           unconstant
           prove
           !
        
         
           And
           so
           it
           will
           ,
           if
           there
           be
           pow'r
           in
           Love.
        
         
         
           Know'st
           thou
           not
           yet
           what
           dangers
           Ships
           sustain
           ,
        
         
           So
           often
           wrack'd
           ,
           how
           darst
           thou
           tempt
           the
           Main
           ?
        
         
           Which
           ,
           were
           it
           smooth
           ;
           were
           every
           wave
           asleep
           ,
        
         
           Ten
           thousand
           forms
           of
           death
           are
           in
           the
           deep
           .
        
         
           In
           that
           abyss
           the
           Gods
           their
           vengance
           store
           ,
        
         
           For
           broken
           Vows
           of
           those
           who
           falsely
           swore
           .
        
         
           There
           winged
           storms
           on
           Sea-born
           Venus
           wait
           ,
        
         
           To
           vindicate
           the
           Justice
           of
           her
           State.
        
         
           Thus
           ,
           I
           to
           Thee
           the
           means
           of
           safety
           show
           :
        
         
           And
           lost
           my self
           ,
           would
           still
           preserve
           my
           Foe
           .
        
         
           False
           as
           thou
           art
           ,
           I
           not
           thy
           death
           design
           :
        
         
           O
           rather
           live
           to
           be
           the
           cause
           of
           mine
           !
        
         
           Shou'd
           some
           avenging
           storm
           thy
           Vessel
           tear
           ,
        
         
           (
           But
           Heav'n
           forbid
           my
           words
           shou'd
           Omen
           bear
           ,
           )
        
         
           Then
           ,
           in
           thy
           face
           thy
           perjur'd
           Vows
           would
           fly
           ;
        
         
           And
           my
           wrong'd
           Ghost
           be
           present
           to
           thy
           eye
           .
        
         
           With
           threatning
           looks
           ,
           think
           thou
           beholdst
           me
           stare
           ,
        
         
           Gasping
           my
           mouth
           ,
           and
           clotted
           all
           my
           hair
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           shou'd
           fork'd
           Lightning
           and
           red
           Thunder
           fall
           ,
        
         
           What
           coud'st
           thou
           say
           ,
           but
           I
           deserv'd
           'em
           all
           ?
        
         
           Lest
           this
           shou'd
           happen
           ,
           make
           not
           hast
           away
           .
        
         
           To
           shun
           the
           danger
           will
           be
           worth
           thy
           stay
           .
        
         
           Have
           pity
           on
           thy
           Son
           ,
           if
           not
           on
           me
           :
        
         
           My
           death
           alone
           is
           guilt
           enough
           for
           thee
           .
        
         
           What
           has
           his
           Youth
           ,
           what
           have
           thy
           Gods
           deserv'd
           ,
        
         
           To
           sink
           in
           Seas
           ,
           who
           were
           from
           fires
           preserv'd
           ?
        
         
           But
           neither
           Gods
           nor
           Parent
           didst
           thou
           bear
           ,
        
         
           (
           Smooth
           stories
           all
           ,
           to
           please
           a
           Womans
           ear
           .
           )
        
         
           False
           was
           the
           tale
           of
           thy
           Romantick
           life
           ;
        
         
           Nor
           yet
           am
           I
           thy
           first
           deluded
           wife
           .
        
         
           Left
           to
           pursuing
           Foes
           Crëusa
           stai'd
           ,
        
         
           By
           thee
           ,
           base
           man
           ,
           forsaken
           and
           betray'd
           .
        
         
           This
           ,
           whenthou
           told'st
           me
           ,
           struck
           my
           tender
           heart
           ,
        
         
           That
           such
           requital
           follow'd
           such
           desert
           .
        
         
           Nor
           doubt
           I
           but
           the
           Gods
           ,
           for
           crimes
           like
           these
           ,
        
         
           Sev'n
           Winters
           kept
           thee
           wandring
           on
           the
           Seas
           .
        
         
         
           Thy
           starv'd
           Companions
           ,
           cast
           a
           Shore
           ,
           I
           fed
           ,
        
         
           Thy self
           admitted
           to
           my
           Crown
           and
           Bed.
        
         
           To
           harbour
           Strangers
           ,
           succour
           the
           distrest
           ,
        
         
           Was
           kind
           enough
           ;
           but
           oh
           too
           kind
           the
           rest
           !
        
         
           Curst
           be
           the
           Cave
           which
           first
           my
           ruin
           brought
           :
        
         
           Where
           ,
           from
           the
           storm
           ,
           we
           common
           shelter
           sought
           !
        
         
           A
           dreadful
           howling
           eccho'd
           round
           the
           place
           ,
        
         
           The
           Mountain
           Nymphs
           ,
           thought
           I
           ,
           my
           Nuptials
           grace
           .
        
         
           I
           thought
           so
           then
           ,
           but
           now
           too
           late
           I
           know
        
         
           The
           Furies
           yell'd
           my
           Funerals
           from
           below
           .
        
         
           O
           Chastity
           and
           violated
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           Exact
           your
           dues
           to
           my
           dead
           Husbands
           name
           !
        
         
           By
           Death
           redeem
           my
           reputation
           lost
           ;
        
         
           And
           to
           his
           Arms
           restore
           my
           guilty
           Ghost
           .
        
         
           Close
           by
           my
           Palace
           ,
           in
           a
           Gloomy
           Grove
           ,
        
         
           Is
           rais'd●a
           Chappel
           to
           my
           murder'd
           Love.
        
         
           There
           ,
           wreath'd
           with
           boughs
           and
           wool
           his
           Statue
           stands
           ,
        
         
           The
           pious
           Monument
           of
           Artful
           hands
           :
        
         
         
           Last
           night
           ,
           methought
           ,
           he
           call'd
           me
           from
           the
           dome
           ,
        
         
           And
           thrice
           with
           hollow
           voice
           ,
           cry'd
           ,
           Dido
           ,
           come
           .
        
         
           She
           comes
           :
           thy
           Wife
           thy
           lawful
           summons
           hears
           :
        
         
           But
           comes
           more
           slowly
           ,
           clogg'd
           with
           conscious
           fears
           .
        
         
           Forgive
           the
           wrong
           I
           offer'd
           to
           thy
           bed
           ,
        
         
           Strong
           were
           his
           charms
           ,
           who
           my
           weak
           faith
           misled
           .
        
         
           His
           Goddess
           Mother
           ,
           and
           his
           aged
           Sire
           ,
        
         
           Born
           on
           his
           back
           ,
           did
           to
           my
           Fall
           conspire
           .
        
         
           O
           such
           he
           was
           ,
           and
           is
           ,
           that
           were
           he
           true
           ,
        
         
           Without
           a
           blush
           I
           might
           his
           Love
           pursue
           .
        
         
           But
           cruel
           Stars
           my
           birth
           day
           did
           attend
           :
        
         
           And
           as
           my
           Fortune
           open'd
           ,
           it
           must
           end
           .
        
         
           My
           plighted
           Lord
           was
           at
           the
           Altar
           slain
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           wealth
           was
           made
           my
           bloody
           Brothers
           gain
           :
        
         
           Friendless
           ,
           and
           follow'd
           by
           the
           Murd'rers
           hate
           ,
        
         
           To
           forein
           Countrey
           's
           I
           remov'd
           my
           Fate
           ;
        
         
           And
           here
           ,
           a
           suppliant
           ,
           from
           the
           Natives
           hands
           ,
        
         
           I
           bought
           the
           ground
           on
           which
           my
           City
           stands
           .
        
         
         
           With
           all
           the
           Coast
           that
           stretches
           to
           the
           Sea
           ;
        
         
           Ev'n
           to
           the
           friendly
           Port
           that
           sheltred
           Thee
           :
        
         
           Then
           rais'd
           these
           Walls
           ,
           which
           mount
           into
           the
           Air
           ,
        
         
           At
           once
           my
           Neighbours
           wonder
           ,
           and
           their
           fear
           .
        
         
           For
           now
           they
           Arm
           ;
           and
           round
           me
           Leagues
           are
           made
        
         
           My
           scarce
           Establisht
           Empire
           to
           invade
           .
        
         
           To
           Man
           my
           new
           built
           Walls
           I
           must
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           An
           helpless
           Woman
           and
           unskill'd
           in
           War.
        
         
           Yet
           thousand
           Rivals
           to
           my
           Love
           pretend
           ;
        
         
           And
           for
           my
           Person
           ,
           would
           my
           Crown
           Defend
           ▪
        
         
           Whose
           jarring
           Votes
           in
           one
           complaint
           agree
           ,
        
         
           That
           each
           unjustly
           is
           disdain'd
           for
           Thee
           .
        
         
           To
           proud
           Hyarbas
           give
           me
           up
           a
           prey
           ;
        
         
           (
           For
           that
           must
           follow
           ,
           if
           thou
           go'st
           away
           .
           )
        
         
           Or
           to
           my
           Husbands
           Murd'rer
           leave
           my
           life
           ;
        
         
           That
           to
           the
           Husband
           he
           may
           add
           the
           Wife
           .
        
         
           Go
           then
           ;
           since
           no
           complaints
           can
           move
           thy
           mind
           :
        
         
           Go
           perjur'd
           man
           ,
           but
           leave
           thy
           Gods
           behind
           .
        
         
         
           Touch
           not
           those
           Gods
           by
           whom
           thou
           art
           for
           sworn
           ;
        
         
           Who
           will
           in
           impious
           hands
           no
           more
           be
           born
           .
        
         
           Thy
           Sacrilegious
           worship
           they
           disdain
           ,
        
         
           And
           rather
           wou'd
           the
           Grecian
           fires
           sustain
           .
        
         
           Perhaps
           my
           greatest
           shame
           is
           still
           to
           come
           ;
        
         
           And
           part
           of
           thee
           lies
           hid
           within
           my
           womb
           .
        
         
           The
           Babe
           unborn
           must
           perish
           by
           thy
           hate
           ,
        
         
           And
           perish
           guiltless
           in
           his
           Mothers
           Fate
           .
        
         
           Some
           God
           ,
           thou
           say'st
           ,
           thy
           Voyage
           does
           command
           :
        
         
           Wou'd
           the
           same
           God
           had
           barr'd
           thee
           from
           my
           Land.
        
         
           The
           same
           ,
           I
           doubt
           not
           ,
           thy
           departure
           Steers
           ,
        
         
           Who
           kept
           thee
           out
           at
           Sea
           so
           many
           years
           .
        
         
           Where
           thy
           long
           labours
           were
           a
           price
           so
           great
           ,
        
         
           As
           thou
           to
           purchase
           Troy
           wouldst
           not
           repeat
           .
        
         
           But
           Tyber
           now
           thou
           seek'st
           ;
           to
           be
           at
           best
        
         
           When
           there
           arriv'd
           ,
           a
           poor
           precarious
           Ghest
           .
        
         
         
           Yet
           it
           deludes
           thy
           search
           :
           perhaps
           it
           will
        
         
           To
           thy
           Old
           Age
           lie
           undiscover'd
           still
           .
        
         
           A
           ready
           Crown
           and
           Wealth
           in
           Dow'r
           I
           bring
           ;
        
         
           And
           without
           Conqu'ring
           here
           thou
           art
           a
           King.
        
         
           Here
           thou
           to
           Carthage
           may'st
           transfer
           thy
           Troy
           ;
        
         
           Here
           young
           Ascanius
           may
           his
           Arms
           emply
           :
        
         
           And
           ,
           while
           we
           live
           secure
           in
           soft
           repose
           ,
        
         
           Bring
           many
           Laurells
           home
           from
           Conquer'd
           Foes
           .
        
         
           By
           Cupids
           Arrows
           ,
           I
           adjure
           thee
           ,
           stay
           ;
        
         
           By
           all
           the
           Gods
           ,
           Companions
           of
           thy
           way
           .
        
         
           So
           may
           they
           Trojans
           ,
           who
           are
           yet
           alive
        
         
           Live
           still
           ,
           and
           with
           no
           future
           Fortune
           strive
           :
        
         
           So
           may
           thy
           Youthful
           Son
           old
           age
           attain
           ,
        
         
           And
           thy
           dead
           Fathers
           Bones
           in
           peace
           remain
           ,
        
         
           As
           thou
           hast
           pity
           on
           unhappy
           me
           ,
        
         
           Who
           know
           no
           Crime
           but
           too
           much
           Love
           of
           thee
           .
        
         
           I
           am
           not
           born
           from
           fierce
           Achilles
           '
           Line
           :
        
         
           Nor
           did
           my
           Parents
           against
           Troy
           combine
           .
        
         
         
           To
           be
           thy
           Wife
           ,
           if
           I
           unworthy
           prove
           ,
        
         
           By
           some
           inferiour
           name
           admit
           my
           Love.
        
         
           To
           be
           secur'd
           of
           still
           possessing
           thee
           ,
        
         
           What
           wou'd●
           do
           ,
           and
           what
           wou'd
           I
           not
           be
           !
        
         
           〈◊〉
           Coasts
           their
           certain
           seasons
           know
           ,
        
         
           〈◊〉
           free
           from
           Tempests
           Passengers
           may
           go
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           with
           Northern
           Blasts
           the
           Billows
           roar
           ,
        
         
           And
           drive
           the
           floating
           Sea-weed
           to
           the
           Shore
           .
        
         
           Leave
           to
           my
           care
           the
           time
           to
           Sail
           away
           ;
        
         
           When
           safe
           ,
           I
           will
           not
           suffer
           thee
           to
           stay
           .
        
         
           Thy
           weary
           Men
           wou'd
           be
           with
           ease
           content
           ;
        
         
           Their
           Sails
           are
           tatter'd
           ,
           and
           their
           Masts
           are
           spent
           :
        
         
           If
           by
           no
           merit
           I
           thy
           mind
           can
           move
           ,
        
         
           What
           thou
           deny'st
           my
           merit
           ,
           give
           my
           Love.
        
         
           Stay
           ,
           till
           I
           learn
           my
           loss
           to
           undergo
           ;
        
         
           And
           give
           me
           time
           to
           struggle
           with
           my
           woe
           .
        
         
           If
           not
           ;
           know
           this
           ,
           I
           will
           not
           suffer
           long
           ;
        
         
           My
           life
           's
           too
           loathsome
           ,
           and
           my
           love
           too
           strong
           .
        
         
         
           Death
           holds
           my
           pen
           ,
           and
           dictates
           what
           I
           say
           ,
        
         
           While
           cross
           my
           lap
           thy
           Trojan
           Sword
           I
           lay
           .
        
         
           My
           tears
           flow
           down
           ;
           the
           sharp
           edge
           cuts
           their
           flood
           ,
        
         
           And
           drinks
           my
           sorrows
           ,
           that
           must
           drink
           my
           blood
           .
        
         
           How
           wellthy
           gift
           does
           with
           my
           Fate
           agree
           !
        
         
           My
           Funeral
           pomp
           is
           cheaply
           made
           by
           thee
           .
        
         
           To
           no
           new
           wounds
           my
           bosom
           I
           display
           :
        
         
           The
           Sword
           but
           enters
           where
           Love
           made
           the
           way
           .
        
         
           But
           thou
           ,
           dear
           Sister
           ,
           and
           yet
           dearer
           friend
           ,
        
         
           Shalt
           my
           cold
           Ashesto
           their
           Urn
           attend
           .
        
         
           Sichaeus
           Wife
           let
           not
           the
           Marble
           boast
           ,
        
         
           I
           lost
           that
           Title
           when
           my
           Fame
           I
           lost
        
         
           This
           short
           Inscription
           only
           let
           it
           bear
           ,
        
         
           "
           Unhappy
           Dido
           lies
           in
           quiet
           here
           .
        
         
           "
           The
           cause
           of
           death
           ,
           &
           Sword
           by
           which
           she
           dy'd
           ,
        
         
           
             "
             Aeneas
          
           gave
           :
           the
           rest
           her
           arm
           supply'd
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           foregoing
           EPISTLE
           OF
           DIDO
           TO
           AENEAS
           .
        
         
           By
           Sir
           
             C.
             S.
          
           
        
         
           SO
           in
           unwonted
           Notes
           ,
           when
           sure
           to
           die
           ,
        
         
           The
           mournful
           Swan
           sings
           her
           own
           Elegy
           .
        
         
           I
           do
           not
           hope
           by
           this
           to
           change
           my
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           Since
           Heaven
           and
           You
           are
           both
           resolv'd
           to
           Hate
           .
        
         
           Rob'd
           of
           my
           Honour
           ,
           't
           is
           no
           wonder
           now
        
         
           That
           you
           disdain
           me
           when
           I
           meanly
           sue
           ;
        
         
         
           Deaf
           to
           my
           Prayr's
           that
           you
           resolve
           to
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           leave
           th'
           unhappy
           you
           have
           rendred
           so
           .
        
         
           You
           and
           your
           Love
           ,
           the
           Winds
           away
           must
           bear
           ,
        
         
           Forgot
           is
           all
           that
           you
           so
           oft
           did
           swear
           :
        
         
           With
           cruel
           hast
           to
           distant
           Lands
           you
           Fly
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           know
           not
           whose
           they
           are
           ,
           nor
           where
           they
           lie
           .
        
         
           On
           Carthage
           and
           its
           rising
           Walls
           you
           frown
           ,
        
         
           And
           shun
           a
           Scepter
           ,
           which
           is
           now
           your
           own
           ;
        
         
           All
           you
           have
           gain'd
           ,
           you
           proudly
           do
           contemn
           ,
        
         
           And
           fondly
           seek
           a
           fancied
           Diadem
           .
        
         
           And
           should
           you
           reach
           at
           last
           this
           promis'd
           Land
           ,
        
         
           who
           'l
           give
           its
           Power
           into
           a
           Strangers
           hand
           ?
        
         
           Another
           easie
           Dido
           do
           you
           seek
           ?
        
         
           And
           new
           Occasions
           new
           made
           Vows
           to
           break
           ?
        
         
           When
           can
           you
           Walls
           like
           ours
           of
           Carthage
           build
           ,
        
         
           And
           see
           your
           Streets
           with
           crowds
           of
           Subjects
           fill'd
           ?
        
         
           But
           tho
           all
           this
           Succeeded
           to
           your
           Mind
           ,
        
         
           So
           true
           a
           Wife
           no
           search
           could
           ever
           find
           .
        
         
         
           Scorch'd
           up
           with
           Loves
           fierce
           fire
           my
           Life
           does
           wast
        
         
           Like
           Incense
           on
           the
           flaming
           Altar
           cast
           ,
        
         
           All
           day
           Aeneas
           walks
           before
           my
           sight
           ,
        
         
           In
           all
           my
           Dreams
           I
           see
           him
           every
           night
           :
        
         
           But
           see
           him
           still
           Ingrateful
           as
           before
           ,
        
         
           And
           such
           as
           ,
           if
           I
           could
           ,
           I
           should
           abhor
           .
        
         
           But
           the
           strong
           Flame
           burns
           on
           against
           my
           will
           ,
        
         
           I
           call
           〈…〉
           Love
           the
           Traytor
           still
           .
        
         
           〈…〉
           Love
           ,
           Thee
           all
           the
           World
           Adore
           !
        
         
           And
           shall
           thy
           Son
           slight
           thy
           Almighty
           Power
           ?
        
         
           His
           Brothers
           stubborn
           soul
           let
           Cupid
           move
           ,
        
         
           Teach
           me
           to
           Hate
           ,
           or
           him
           to
           Merit
           Love
           !
        
         
           But
           the
           Impostor
           his
           high
           Birth
           did
           feign
           ,
        
         
           (
           Tho
           to
           that
           Tale
           his
           Face
           did
           Credit
           gain
           ,
           )
        
         
           He
           was
           not
           born
           of
           Venus
           ,
           who
           could
           prove
        
         
           So
           Cruel
           ,
           and
           so
           Faithless
           in
           his
           Love.
        
         
           From
           Rocks
           or
           Mountains
           he
           deriv'd
           his
           Birth
           !
        
         
           Fierce
           Wolves
           or
           Savage
           Tygers
           brought
           him
           forth
           !
        
         
         
           Or
           else
           he
           sprung
           from
           the
           Tempestuous
           Main
           ,
        
         
           To
           which
           so
           eagerly
           he
           flies
           again
           .
        
         
           How
           dreadful
           the
           contending
           Waves
           appear
           !
        
         
           These
           Winter
           storms
           by
           force
           would
           keep
           you
           here
           .
        
         
           The
           Storms
           are
           kinder
           and
           the
           Winds
           more
           true
           !
        
         
           Let
           me
           ow
           Them
           ,
           what
           I
           would
           ow
           to
           You.
        
         
           You
           'l
           shew
           your
           Hatred
           at
           too
           dear
           a
           rate
           ,
        
         
           If
           to
           fly
           me
           ,
           you
           run
           on
           certain
           Fate
           .
        
         
           Stay
           only
           till
           these
           raging
           Tempests
           cease
           ,
        
         
           And
           breeding
           Halcyons
           all
           my
           Fears
           release
           .
        
         
           Then
           you
           perhaps
           may
           change
           your
           cruel
           Mind
           ,
        
         
           And
           will
           learn
           Pity
           from
           the
           Sea
           and
           Wind.
        
         
           Are
           you
           not
           warn'd
           by
           all
           youv'e
           felt
           and
           seen
           ?
        
         
           And
           will
           you
           Tempt
           the
           Faithless
           Floods
           again
           ?
        
         
           Tho
           't
           were
           calm
           now
           ,
           it
           would
           not
           long
           be
           so
           ,
        
         
           Think
           ,
           to
           what
           distant
           Countreys
           you
           would
           go
           .
        
         
         
           There
           's
           not
           one
           God
           who
           will
           that
           Vessel
           bless
           ,
        
         
           Which
           Lies
           ,
           and
           Frauds
           ,
           and
           Perjuries
           oppress
           .
        
         
           The
           Sea
           let
           every
           faithless
           Lover
           fear
           ,
        
         
           The
           Queen
           of
           Love
           Rose
           thence
           ,
           &
           Governs
           there
           .
        
         
           Still
           the
           dear
           Cause
           of
           all
           my
           Ills
           I
           love
           ,
        
         
           And
           my
           last
           words
           Heav'n
           for
           your
           safety
           move
           ;
        
         
           That
           your
           false
           Flight
           may
           not
           as
           Fatal
           be
        
         
           To
           You
           ,
           as
           your
           Dissembled
           Love
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           But
           in
           the
           Storm
           ,
           when
           the
           huge
           Billows
           rowl
           ,
        
         
           (
           Th'
           unlucky
           Omen
           may
           kind
           Heav'n
           controul
           ,
           )
        
         
           Think
           what
           Distracted
           Thoughts
           will
           fill
           your
           soul.
        
         
           You
           'l
           then
           remember
           every
           broken
           Vow
           ,
        
         
           With
           Horror
           think
           on
           Murdred
           Dido
           too
           .
        
         
           My
           Ghost
           all
           Pale
           and
           Ghastly
           shall
           be
           there
           ,
        
         
           With
           Mortal
           wounds
           still
           bleeding
           I
           'le
           appear
           .
        
         
           Then
           you
           will
           own
           what
           to
           such
           Crimes
           is
           due
           ,
        
         
           And
           think
           each
           Flash
           of
           Lightning
           aim'd
           at
           you
           .
        
         
         
           Your
           Cruel
           Flight
           till
           the
           next
           Calm
           delay
           ,
        
         
           Your
           quiet
           passage
           will
           reward
           your
           stay
           .
        
         
           I
           beg
           not
           for
           my self
           ,
           but
           do
           not
           joyn
        
         
           The
           Guilt
           of
           your
           Ascanius
           Death
           to
           mine
           .
        
         
           What
           has
           your
           Son
           ,
           what
           have
           your
           Gods
           〈◊〉
           ?
        
         
           For
           a
           worse
           Fate
           were
           they
           from
           Flames
           〈◊〉
           ?
        
         
           But
           sure
           you
           neither
           sav'd
           them
           from
           the
           Fire
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           on
           your
           shoulders
           bore
           your
           Aged
           Sire
           ;
        
         
           But
           did
           Contrive
           that
           Story
           ,
           to
           Deceive
        
         
           A
           Queen
           ,
           so
           fond
           ,
           so
           willing
           to
           Believe
           .
        
         
           Your
           ready
           Tongue
           told
           many
           a
           pleasing
           lie
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           did
           it
           practice
           first
           these
           cheats
           on
           me
           .
        
         
           You
           by
           like
           Arts
           did
           fair
           Crëusa
           gain
           ,
        
         
           And
           then
           forsook
           her
           with
           a
           like
           Disdain
           .
        
         
           I
           've
           wept
           to
           hear
           you
           tell
           that
           Ladies
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           My self
           now
           justly
           more
           unfortunate
           .
        
         
           ▪
           T
           is
           to
           Revenge
           these
           Crimes
           the
           Gods
           Engage
           ,
        
         
           And
           make
           you
           Wander
           out
           your
           wretched
           Age.
        
         
         
           A
           Shipwrack'd
           wretch
           I
           kindly
           did
           receive
           ,
        
         
           My
           Wealth
           &
           Crown
           to
           hands
           unknown
           did
           give
           .
        
         
           Had
           I
           stop'd
           there
           ,
           I
           had
           been
           free
           from
           shame
           ,
        
         
           And
           had
           not
           stain'd
           my
           clear
           and
           spotless
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           Heaven
           to
           betray
           my
           Honour
           did
           Comply
           ,
        
         
           When
           Thunder
           &
           black
           Clouds
           fill'd
           all
           the
           Sky
           ,
        
         
           And
           made
           us
           to
           the
           fatal
           shelter
           fly
           .
        
         
           The
           Furies
           howl'd
           ,
           and
           dire
           Presages
           gave
           ,
        
         
           And
           shrieking
           Nymphs
           forsook
           the
           guilty
           Cave
           .
        
         
           I
           cannot
           live
           ,
           that
           Crime
           torments
           me
           so
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           full
           of
           shame
           to
           my
           Sichaeus
           go
           .
        
         
           In
           a
           fair
           Temple
           built
           by
           skilful
           hands
           ,
        
         
           A
           Sacred
           Image
           of
           Sichaeus
           stands
           ;
        
         
           With
           snowy
           Fleeces
           drest
           ,
           &
           Garlands
           Crown'd
           ,
        
         
           From
           thence
           of
           late
           Iv'e
           heard
           a
           dismal
           sound
           !
        
         
           Four
           times
           he
           call'd
           me
           with
           a
           hollow
           Voice
           ,
        
         
           My
           loosn'd
           Joynts
           still
           tremble
           at
           the
           Noise
           !
        
         
         
           My
           dearest
           Lord
           your
           Summons
           I
           obey
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           shame
           to
           meet
           you
           makes
           this
           short
           delay
           .
        
         
           Yet
           such
           a
           Tempter
           might
           the
           Crime
           excuse
           ,
        
         
           His
           Heavenly
           Race
           ,
           and
           all
           his
           Solemn
           Vows
           !
        
         
           The
           best
           of
           Fathers
           ,
           the
           most
           Pious
           Son
           !
        
         
           Who
           could
           suspect
           he
           ,
           who
           such
           things
           had
           done
           ,
        
         
           So
           well
           had
           Acted
           all
           the
           parts
           of
           Life
           ,
        
         
           Could
           have
           betray'd
           a
           Princess
           and
           a
           Wife
           ?
        
         
           Had
           he
           not
           wanted
           Faith
           ,
           your self
           must
           own
        
         
           He
           had
           Deserv'd
           to
           fill
           my
           Bed
           and
           Throne
           .
        
         
           In
           my
           first
           Youth
           what
           Cares
           disturb'd
           my
           Peace
           !
        
         
           And
           my
           Misfortunes
           with
           my
           Years
           encrease
           !
        
         
           My
           Husbands
           Blood
           was
           by
           my
           Brother
           spilt
           ,
        
         
           And
           still
           his
           Wealth
           Rewards
           the
           prosperous
           Guilt
           :
        
         
           Through
           waies
           unknown
           a
           dangerous
           flight
           I
           take
           ,
        
         
           His
           Ashes
           and
           my
           Native
           Soyl
           forsake
           ;
        
         
           Here
           sheltred
           from
           my
           Brothers
           Crueltie
           ,
        
         
           I
           bought
           this
           Kingdom
           ,
           which
           I
           gave
           to
           Thee
           .
        
         
         
           My
           City
           did
           in
           Glory
           daily
           rise
           ,
        
         
           Which
           all
           my
           Neighbours
           saw
           with
           envious
           Eyes
           .
        
         
           And
           Force
           against
           unfinish'd
           Walls
           prepare
           ,
        
         
           Threatning
           a
           helpless
           Woman
           with
           a
           War.
        
         
           Those
           many
           Kings
           ,
           who
           did
           my
           Bed
           desire
           ,
        
         
           Now
           to
           revenge
           their
           slighted
           Love
           conspire
           .
        
         
           Go
           on
           ,
           my
           People
           are
           at
           your
           Command
           ,
        
         
           Give
           me
           up
           bound
           to
           some
           fierce
           Rivals
           hand
           :
        
         
           Assist
           my
           Cruel
           Brothers
           black
           Design
           ,
        
         
           Drunk
           with
           Sichaeus
           Blood
           ,
           he
           thirsts
           for
           min●
           .
        
         
           But
           then
           pretend
           to
           Piety
           no
           more
           ,
        
         
           The
           False
           ,
           and
           Perjur'd
           ,
           all
           the
           Gods
           abhor
           .
        
         
           Even
           those
           you
           snatch'd
           from
           Troys
           devouring
           Flame
           ,
        
         
           Are
           griev'd
           that
           from
           such
           hands
           their
           safety
           came
           .
        
         
           A
           growing
           Infant
           in
           my
           Womb
           you
           leave
           ,
        
         
           Of
           your
           w●ole
           self
           ,
           you
           cannot
           me
           bereave
           .
        
         
         
           You
           kill
           not
           Dido
           only
           ,
           if
           you
           go
           ,
        
         
           The
           Guiltless
           and
           unborn
           you
           Murder
           too
           .
        
         
           With
           me
           a
           new
           unknown
           Ascanius
           dies
           ,
        
         
           Tho'
           deaf
           to
           mine
           ,
           yet
           think
           you
           hear
           his
           Cries
           .
        
         
           But
           't
           is
           the
           God
           Commands
           ,
           and
           you
           Obey
           ,
        
         
           Ah!
           would
           that
           He
           who
           now
           forbids
           your
           stay
           ,
        
         
           Had
           never
           led
           your
           shatter'd
           Fleet
           this
           way
           !
        
         
           And
           now
           this
           God
           Commands
           you
           out
           again
        
         
           T'
           endure
           another
           Winter
           on
           the
           Main
           !
        
         
           Scarce
           Troy
           restor'd
           to
           all
           her
           Ancient
           State
           ,
        
         
           Were
           worth
           the
           seeking
           at
           so
           dear
           a
           Rate
           .
        
         
           Cease
           then
           through
           such
           vast
           Dangers
           to
           pursue
        
         
           A
           Place
           ,
           which
           ,
           but
           in
           Dreams
           ,
           you
           never
           knew
           .
        
         
           In
           search
           of
           which
           ,
           you
           your
           best
           years
           may
           wast
           ,
        
         
           And
           come
           a
           Stranger
           there
           ,
           and
           Old
           at
           last
           .
        
         
           See
           at
           your
           Feet
           a
           willing
           People
           lies
           ,
        
         
           And
           do
           not
           offer'd
           Wealth
           ,
           and
           Power
           despise
           .
        
         
         
           Fix
           here
           the
           Reliques
           of
           unhappy
           Troy
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           soft
           Peace
           ,
           all
           you
           have
           sav'd
           ,
           enjoy
           .
        
         
           But
           if
           new
           Dangers
           your
           Great
           Soul
           Desires
           ,
        
         
           If
           Thirst
           of
           Fame
           your
           Sons
           young
           Breast
           inspires
           ,
        
         
           You
           'l
           frequent
           Tryals
           here
           for
           Valour
           find
           ,
        
         
           Our
           Neighbours
           are
           as
           rough
           as
           we
           are
           kind
           .
        
         
           By
           your
           dear
           Fathers
           Soul
           I
           beg
           your
           stay
           ,
        
         
           By
           the
           kind
           Gods
           who
           hither
           blest
           your
           way
           ,
        
         
           And
           by
           your
           Brothers
           Darts
           ,
           which
           all
           Obey
           .
        
         
           So
           may
           white
           Conquest
           on
           your
           Troops
           attend
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           your
           long
           Misfortunes
           here
           take
           end
           .
        
         
           So
           with
           his
           Years
           may
           your
           Sons
           hopes
           encrease
           ,
        
         
           So
           may
           A●chises
           Ashes
           rest
           in
           Peace
           .
        
         
           Some
           Pity
           let
           a
           suppliant
           Princess
           move
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           only
           fault
           was
           an
           Excess
           of
           Love.
        
         
           I
           am
           not
           sprung
           from
           any
           Grecian
           Race
           ,
        
         
           None
           of
           my
           Blood
           did
           your
           Lov'd
           Troy
           deface
           .
        
         
         
           Yet
           if
           your
           Pride
           think
           such
           a
           Wife
           a
           shame
           ,
        
         
           I
           'le
           Sacrifice
           my
           Honour
           to
           my
           Flame
           ,
        
         
           And
           meet
           your
           Love
           by
           a
           less
           Glorious
           name
           .
        
         
           I
           know
           the
           dangers
           of
           this
           stormy
           Coast
           ,
        
         
           How
           many
           Ships
           have
           on
           our
           Shelves
           been
           lost
           .
        
         
           These
           winds
           have
           driv'n
           the
           floating
           Sea
           weed
           so
           ,
        
         
           That
           your
           entangled
           Vessel
           cannot
           go
           .
        
         
           Do
           not
           attempt
           to
           put
           to
           Sea
           in
           vain
           ,
        
         
           Till
           happier
           Gales
           have
           clear'd
           your
           way
           again
           .
        
         
           Trust
           Me
           to
           watch
           the
           Calming
           of
           the
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           You
           shall
           not
           then
           ,
           tho
           you
           desir'd
           it
           ,
           stay
           .
        
         
           Besides
           your
           weary
           Seamen
           rest
           desire
           ,
        
         
           And
           your
           torn
           Fleet
           now
           rigging
           does
           require
           .
        
         
           By
           all
           I
           suffer
           ,
           all
           I
           've
           done
           for
           you
           ,
        
         
           Some
           little
           respite
           to
           my
           Love
           allow
           .
        
         
           Time
           and
           calm
           Thoughts
           may
           teach
           me
           how
           to
           bear
           ,
        
         
           That
           loss
           ,
           which
           now
           alas
           't
           is
           death
           to
           hear
           .
        
         
         
           But
           you
           resolve
           to
           force
           me
           to
           my
           Grave
           ,
        
         
           And
           are
           not
           far
           from
           all
           that
           you
           would
           have
           .
        
         
           Your
           Sword
           before
           me
           ,
           whilst
           I
           write
           ,
           does
           lie
           ,
        
         
           And
           ,
           by
           it
           ,
           if
           I
           write
           in
           vain
           ,
           I
           die
           .
        
         
           Already
           stain'd
           with
           many
           a
           falling
           Tear
           ,
        
         
           It
           shortly
           shall
           another
           Colour
           wear
           .
        
         
           You
           never
           could
           an
           apter
           present
           make
           ,
        
         
           'T
           will
           soon
           ,
           the
           Life
           you
           've
           made
           uneasie
           ,
           take
           .
        
         
           But
           this
           poor
           Breast
           has
           felt
           your
           Wounds
           before
           ,
        
         
           Slain
           by
           your
           Love
           ,
           your
           Steel
           has
           now
           no
           Power
           .
        
         
           Dear
           Guilty
           Sister
           ,
           do
           not
           you
           deny
        
         
           The
           last
           kind
           Office
           to
           my
           Memory
           ;
        
         
           But
           do
           not
           on
           my
           Funeral
           Marble
           Joyn
        
         
           Much
           wrong'd
           Sichaeus
           Sacred
           Name
           with
           mine
           .
        
         
           "
           Of
           false
           Aeneas
           let
           the
           Stone
           complain
           ,
        
         
           "
           That
           Dido
           could
           not
           bear
           his
           fierce
           Disdain
           ,
        
         
           "
           But
           by
           his
           Sword
           ,
           and
           her
           own
           hand
           was
           slain
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           BRISEIS
           to
           ACHILLES
           .
        
         
           BY
           
             IOHN
             CARYL
          
           
             Esq
          
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             In
             the
             War
             of
             
               Troy
               ,
               Achilles
            
             having
             taken
             and
             Sackt
             Chrynesium
             ,
             a
             Town
             in
             the
             Lyrnesian
             Country
             ,
             amongst
             his
             other
             Booty
             ,
             he
             took
             two
             very
             fair
             Women
             ,
             Chryseis
             ,
             and
             
               Briseis
               :
               Chryseis
            
             he
             Presented
             to
             King
             Agamemnon
             ,
             and
             Briseis
             he
             reserved
             for
             himself
             .
             Agamemnon
             after
             some
             time
             was
             forced
             by
             the
             Oracle
             to
             restore
             Chryseis
             to
             her
             Father
             ,
             who
             was
             one
             of
             the
             Priests
             of
             Apollo
             ;
             whereupon
             the
             King
             by
             violence
             took
             away
             Briseis
             from
             Achilles
             ;
             at
             which
             Achilles
             incenst
             ,
             left
             the
             Camp
             of
             the
             Grecians
             ,
             and
             prepared
             to
             Sail
             home
             ;
             in
             whose
             absence
             the
             Trojans
             prevailing
             upon
             the
             
               Grecians
               ,
               Agamemnon
            
             was
             compell'd
             to
             send
             Ulysses
             ,
             and
             others
             to
             offer
             him
             rich
             Presents
             ,
             and
             Briseis
             :
             that
             he
             would
             return
             again
             to
             the
             Army
             :
             But
             Achilles
             with
             disdain
             rejected
             them
             all
             .
             This
             Letter
             therefore
             is
             writen
             by
             Briseis
             ,
             to
             move
             him
             ,
             that
             he
             would
             receive
             her
             ,
             and
             return
             to
             the
             Grecian
             Camp.
             
          
        
         
           CAptive
           Brisëis
           in
           a
           aforaign
           Tongue
        
         
           More
           by
           her
           blots
           ,
           than
           words
           ,
           set's
           forth
           her
           wrong
        
         
         
           And
           yet
           these
           blots
           ,
           which
           by
           my
           tears
           are
           made
           ,
        
         
           Above
           all
           words
           ,
           or
           writing
           should
           perswade
           .
        
         
           Subjects
           (
           I
           know
           )
           must
           not
           their
           Lords
           accuse
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           prayers
           and
           tears
           we
           lawfully
           may
           use
           .
        
         
           When
           ravisht
           from
           your
           Arms
           ,
           I
           was
           the
           prey
        
         
           Of
           Agamemnons
           arbitrary
           sway
           ;
        
         
           〈…〉
           ,
           you
           must
           at
           last
           have
           left
           the
           Field
           ,
        
         
           〈…〉
           ,
           you
           too
           soon
           did
           yield
           .
        
         
           〈…〉
           Glory
           it
           must
           needs
           disgrace
           ,
        
         
           〈…〉
           Summons
           to
           yield
           up
           the
           place
           .
        
         
           〈◊〉
           Enemies
           themselves
           ,
           no
           less
           than
           I
           ,
        
         
           ●tood
           wondring
           at
           their
           easy
           Victory
           :
        
         
           I
           saw
           their
           lips
           in
           whispers
           softly
           move
           ,
        
         
           Is
           this
           the
           Man
           so
           fam'd
           for
           Arms
           ,
           and
           Love
           ?
        
         
           Alas
           !
           A●hilles
           ,
           't
           is
           not
           so
           ,
           we
           part
        
         
           From
           what
           we
           love
           ,
           and
           what
           is
           near
           our
           heart
           ,
        
         
           No
           healing
           kisses
           to
           my
           grief
           you
           gave
           ;
        
         
           You
           turn'd
           me
           off
           ,
           an
           unregarded
           Slave
           .
        
         
         
           Was
           it
           your
           Rage
           ,
           that
           did
           your
           Love
           suppress
           ?
        
         
           Ah
           ,
           love
           Briseis
           more
           ,
           and
           hate
           A●rides
           less
           !
        
         
           He
           is
           not
           born
           of
           a
           true
           Hero's
           Race
           ,
        
         
           Who
           lets
           his
           Fury
           of
           his
           Love
           take
           place
           :
        
         
           Tygers
           ,
           and
           Wolves
           can
           fight
           :
           Love
           is
           the
           Test
           ,
        
         
           Distinguishing
           the
           Hero
           from
           the
           Beast
           .
        
         
           Alas
           !
           when
           I
           was
           from
           your
           bosom
           forc'd
           ,
        
         
           I
           felt
           my
           body
           from
           my
           soul
           divorc'd
           ;
        
         
           A
           deadly
           paleness
           overspread
           my
           face
           ;
        
         
           Sleep
           left
           my
           eyes
           ,
           and
           to
           my
           tears
           gave
           place
           :
        
         
           I
           tore
           my
           hair
           ,
           and
           did
           my
           death
           decree
           :
        
         
           Ah!
           learn
           to
           part
           with
           what
           you
           love
           ,
           from
           me
           .
        
         
           A
           bold
           escape
           I
           often
           did
           essay
           ,
        
         
           But
           Greeks
           ,
           and
           Trojans
           too
           ,
           block'd
           up
           the
           way
           :
        
         
           Yet
           tho
           a
           tender
           Maid
           could
           not
           break
           thrôw
           ,
        
         
           Methinks
           ,
           Achilles
           should
           not
           be
           so
           slow
           ;
        
         
           Achilles
           ,
           once
           the
           Thunderbolt
           of
           War
           ,
        
         
           The
           hope
           of
           Conquering
           Greece
           ,
           &
           
           Troy's
           despair
           ,
        
         
         
           Me
           in
           his
           Rivals
           Arms
           can
           he
           behold
           ?
        
         
           And
           is
           his
           Courage
           with
           his
           Love
           grown
           cold
           ?
        
         
           But
           I
           confess
           ,
           that
           my
           neglected
           Charms
        
         
           Did
           not
           deserve
           the
           Conquest
           of
           your
           Arms
           ;
        
         
           Therefore
           the
           Gods
           did
           by
           an
           easier
           way
        
         
           Our
           wrongs
           attone
           ,
           and
           Dammages
           repay
           :
        
         
           Ajax
           with
           Phoenix
           ,
           and
           Vlysses
           bring
        
         
           Humble
           submissions
           from
           their
           haughty
           King
           :
        
         
           The
           Royal
           Penitent
           rich
           Presents
           sends
           ,
        
         
           The
           strongest
           Cement
           to
           piece
           broken
           Friends
           :
        
         
           When
           Pray'rs
           well
           seconded
           with
           Gifts
           are
           sent
           ,
        
         
           Both
           Mortal
           ,
           and
           Immortal
           Powers
           relent
           :
        
         
           Twenty
           bright
           Vessels
           of
           Corinthian
           Brass
           ,
        
         
           Their
           Sculpture
           did
           the
           costly
           Mine
           surpass
           ;
        
         
           Seven
           Chairs
           of
           State
           of
           the
           same
           Art
           ,
           and
           Mould
           ,
        
         
           And
           twice
           five
           Talents
           of
           perswasive
           Gold.
        
         
           Twelve
           fiery
           Steeds
           of
           the
           Epirian
           breed
           ,
        
         
           Matchless
           they
           are
           for
           beauty
           ,
           and
           for
           speed
           ;
        
         
         
           Six
           Lesbian
           Maids
           (
           but
           these
           I
           well
           could
           spare
           )
        
         
           Their
           Island
           Sackt
           ,
           these
           were
           the
           General
           's
           share
           ;
        
         
           And
           last
           a
           Bride
           ,
           (
           ah
           !
           telle'm
           I
           am
           thine
           )
        
         
           At
           your
           own
           choice
           out
           of
           the
           Royal
           Line
           :
        
         
           With
           these
           they
           offer
           me
           :
           But
           ,
           might
           I
           chuse
           ,
        
         
           You
           should
           take
           me
           ,
           and
           all
           their
           gifts
           refuse
           :
        
         
           But
           me
           ,
           and
           those
           you
           sullenly
           reject
           ;
        
         
           What
           have
           I
           done
           ,
           to
           merit
           this
           neglect
           ?
        
         
           Is
           it
           that
           You
           ,
           and
           Fortune
           jointly
           vow
           ,
        
         
           Whom
           you
           make
           wretched
           ,
           still
           to
           keep
           them
           so
           ?
        
         
           Your
           Arms
           my
           Country
           did
           in
           ashes
           lay
           .
        
         
           My
           House
           destroy
           ,
           Brothers
           ,
           and
           Husband
           slay
           :
        
         
           It
           had
           been
           kindness
           to
           have
           kill'd
           me
           too
           ,
        
         
           Rather
           than
           kill
           me
           with
           unkindness
           now
           .
        
         
           With
           Vows
           as
           faithless
           ,
           as
           your
           Mother
           Sea
           ,
        
         
           You
           loudly
           promis'd
           ,
           that
           you
           would
           to
           me
           ,
        
         
           Country
           ,
           and
           Brothers
           ,
           and
           a
           Husband
           be
           .
        
         
         
           And
           is
           it
           thus
           ,
           that
           you
           perform
           your
           Vow
           ,
        
         
           Even
           with
           a
           Dowry
           to
           reject
           me
           too
           ?
        
         
           Nay
           ,
           Fame
           reports
           that
           with
           the
           next
           fair
           wind
           ,
        
         
           Leaving
           your
           Honour
           ,
           Faith
           ,
           and
           me
           behind
           ,
        
         
           You
           quit
           our
           Coasts
           :
           Before
           that
           fatal
           hour
           ,
        
         
           May
           Thunder
           strike
           me
           ,
           or
           kind
           Earth
           devour
           !
        
         
           I
           all
           things
           ,
           but
           your
           absence
           ,
           can
           endure
           !
        
         
           That
           's
           a
           disease
           ,
           which
           Death
           must
           only
           cure
           .
        
         
           If
           to
           Achaia
           you
           will
           needs
           return
           ,
        
         
           Leaving
           all
           Greece
           your
           sullen
           rage
           to
           mourn
           ,
        
         
           Place
           me
           but
           in
           the
           number
           of
           your
           train
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           no
           servile
           Office
           will
           disdain
           :
        
         
           If
           I
           'm
           deny'd
           the
           Honour
           of
           your
           Bed
           ,
        
         
           Let
           me
           at
           least
           be
           ,
           as
           your
           Captive
           led
           :
        
         
           Rather
           ,
           than
           banisht
           from
           your
           Familie
        
         
           I
           will
           endure
           another
           Wife
           to
           see
           ;
        
         
           A
           Wife
           ,
           to
           make
           the
           great
           Aeacian
           Line
           ,
        
         
           Like
           Starry
           Heaven
           ,
           as
           numerously
           shine
           ;
        
         
         
           That
           so
           your
           spreading
           Progeny
           may
           prove
        
         
           Worthy
           of
           Thetis
           ,
           and
           their
           Grandsire
           Iove
           .
        
         
           Let
           me
           on
           her
           an
           humble
           hand-Maid
           ,
           wait
           ;
        
         
           On
           her
           ,
           because
           to
           you
           she
           does
           relate
           .
        
         
           I
           fear
           (
           I
           know
           not
           why
           )
           that
           she
           may
           be
           ,
        
         
           Than
           to
           her
           other
           Maids
           ,
           more
           harsh
           to
           me
           :
        
         
           But
           you
           are
           bound
           to
           guard
           your
           Conquer'd
           Slave
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           maintain
           the
           Articles
           you
           gave
           :
        
         
           Yet
           should
           you
           yield
           to
           her
           imperious
           sway
           ,
        
         
           Do
           what
           you
           will
           ,
           but
           turn
           me
           not
           away
           .
        
         
           But
           why
           should
           you
           depart
           ?
           The
           King
           repents
           ;
        
         
           The
           Grecian
           Army
           wants
           you
           in
           their
           Tents
           :
        
         
           You
           conquer
           all
           ;
           Conquer
           your
           Passion
           too
           ;
        
         
           Or
           else
           with
           Hector
           ,
           you
           will
           Greece
           undo
           .
        
         
           Take
           Arms
           (
           Aeacides
           )
           but
           first
           take
           me
           ,
        
         
           Your
           juster
           Rage
           let
           routed
           Trojans
           see
           .
        
         
           For
           me
           begun
           ,
           for
           me
           your
           anger
           end
           ;
        
         
           The
           fault
           I
           caus'd
           ,
           let
           me
           have
           power
           to
           mend
           .
        
         
         
           In
           this
           to
           me
           you
           may
           with
           Honour
           yield
           ,
        
         
           Rul'd
           by
           his
           Wife
           ,
           Oenides
           took
           the
           Field
           .
        
         
           His
           Mothers
           Sacred
           Curses
           him
           disarm'd
           ;
        
         
           But
           by
           his
           Wive's
           more
           powerful
           Spells
           uncharm'd
           ,
        
         
           His
           Armour
           once
           put
           off
           ,
           he
           buckles
           on
           ,
        
         
           And
           fights
           and
           Conquers
           for
           his
           Calidon
           :
        
         
           That
           happy
           Wife
           prevail'd
           ,
           why
           should
           not
           I
           ?
        
         
           But
           you
           that
           Title
           ,
           and
           my
           Power
           deny
           :
        
         
           Title
           and
           Power
           ,
           and
           all
           ambitious
           strife
           .
        
         
           Of
           being
           call'd
           your
           Mistris
           ,
           or
           your
           Wife
           ,
        
         
           I
           quietly
           lay
           down
           ;
           but
           I
           must
           have
        
         
           This
           Claim
           allow'd
           ,
           to
           be
           your
           faithful
           Slave
           .
        
         
           I
           by
           those
           dread
           ,
           ill-cover'd
           Ashes
           swear
           ,
        
         
           (
           Alas
           their
           Tomb
           Lyrnesian
           Ruins
           are
           )
        
         
           Of
           my
           dead
           Spouse
           ,
           and
           by
           each
           Sacred
           Ghost
        
         
           Of
           my
           three
           Brothers
           ,
           honourably
           lost
           ,
        
         
           Who
           for
           ,
           and
           with
           their
           Country
           bravely
           fell
           ;
        
         
           By
           all
           ,
           that
           's
           awful
           both
           in
           Heav'n
           ,
           and
           Hell.
        
         
         
           And
           last
           of
           all
           by
           thine
           own
           Head
           ,
           and
           mine
           ,
        
         
           Whom
           Love
           ,
           though
           parted
           now
           ,
           did
           sometimes
           joyn
           ,
        
         
           That
           I
           preserve
           my
           Faith
           entire
           ,
           and
           chast
           ;
        
         
           That
           I
           no
           foraign
           love
           ,
           or
           pleasure
           taste
           ;
        
         
           That
           no
           aspersion
           can
           my
           Honour
           touch
           ;
        
         
           O!
           that
           Achilles
           too
           could
           say
           as
           much
           !
        
         
           Some
           think
           he
           mourns
           for
           me
           ;
           But
           others
           say
           ,
        
         
           In
           Loves
           soft
           joyes
           he
           melts
           his
           hours
           away
           ;
        
         
           That
           some
           new
           Mistris
           with
           Circean
           Charms
        
         
           ●as
           lockt
           him
           up
           in
           her
           lascivious
           arms
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           transform'd
           from
           what
           he
           was
           before
           ,
        
         
           That
           he
           will
           fight
           for
           Greece
           or
           Me
           no
           more
           .
        
         
           The
           Trumpet
           now
           to
           the
           soft
           Lute
           must
           yield
           ,
        
         
           To
           Midnight
           Revels
           ,
           Marches
           in
           the
           Field
           .
        
         
           He
           whom
           of
           late
           Greece
           ,
           as
           her
           Mars
           ,
           ador'd
           ,
        
         
           He
           ,
           on
           whose
           Massie
           Spear
           ,
           and
           glittering
           Sword
        
         
           The
           Fates
           ,
           and
           Death
           did
           wait
           ,
           that
           mighty
           Man
        
         
           Now
           weilds
           a
           Busk
           ,
           and
           brandisheth
           a
           Fan.
        
         
         
           Avert
           it
           Heaven
           !
           can
           he
           be
           only
           brave
        
         
           To
           wast
           my
           Country
           ,
           not
           his
           own
           to
           save
           ?
        
         
           And
           when
           his
           Arms
           my
           Family
           mow'd
           down
           ,
        
         
           Lost
           he
           his
           sting
           ,
           and
           so
           became
           a
           Drone
           ?
        
         
           Ah!
           cure
           these
           fears
           ;
           and
           let
           me
           have
           the
           Pride
           ,
        
         
           To
           see
           your
           Javelin
           fixt
           in
           
           Hector's
           side
           .
        
         
           O!
           that
           the
           Grecians
           would
           send
           me
           to
           try
           ,
        
         
           If
           I
           could
           make
           your
           stubborn
           heart
           comply
           :
        
         
           Few
           words
           I
           'd
           use
           ,
           all
           should
           be
           sighs
           ,
           and
           tears
           ,
        
         
           And
           looks
           ,
           and
           kisses
           ,
           mixt
           with
           hopes
           ,
           and
           fears
           :
        
         
           My
           Love
           like
           lightning
           throw
           my
           Eyes
           should
           fly
           ,
        
         
           And
           thaw
           the
           Ice
           ,
           which
           round
           your
           heart
           does
           lie
           :
        
         
           Sometimes
           my
           Arms
           about
           your
           neck
           I
           'd
           throw
           ;
        
         
           And
           then
           embrace
           your
           knees
           ,
           and
           humbly
           bow
           :
        
         
           There
           is
           more
           Eloquence
           in
           tears
           ,
           and
           kisses
           ,
        
         
           Than
           in
           the
           smooth
           Harangues
           of
           fly
           Vlysses
           :
        
         
           That
           noisie
           Rhetorick
           of
           a
           twanging
           tongue
           ,
        
         
           Serves
           but
           to
           lug
           the
           heavy
           Crowd
           along
           :
        
         
         
           But
           Souls
           with
           Souls
           speak
           only
           by
           the
           Eye
           ,
        
         
           And
           at
           those
           Windows
           one
           another
           spie
           :
        
         
           Thus
           ,
           then
           your
           Mother
           Sea
           rai●'d
           with
           the
           wind
        
         
           More
           fierce
           ,
           I
           would
           compose
           your
           stormy
           mind
           ;
        
         
           And
           my
           Love
           shining
           on
           my
           tears
           ,
           that
           flow
           ,
        
         
           Should
           make
           a
           Rainbow
           ,
           and
           fair
           weather
           show
           .
        
         
           So
           dreams
           my
           Love.
           Ah!
           come
           ,
           that
           I
           may
           try
           ,
        
         
           If
           I
           can
           turn
           my
           Dream
           to
           Prophecie
           :
        
         
           So
           may
           your
           Pyrrbus
           live
           to
           equalize
        
         
           His
           Grandsire's
           years
           ,
           his
           Fathers
           Victories
           .
        
         
           Let
           me
           no
           longer
           pin'd
           in
           absence
           lie
           ;
        
         
           Rather
           than
           live
           without
           you
           ,
           let
           me
           d●e
           :
        
         
           My
           heart
           's
           already
           cold
           ,
           and
           Death
           do's
           spread
        
         
           His
           livid
           paleness
           o're
           my
           lively
           red
           .
        
         
           My
           life
           hangs
           only
           on
           the
           slender
           hope
           ,
        
         
           That
           your
           reviving
           Love
           your
           rage
           will
           stop
           .
        
         
           If
           that
           shou'd
           fail
           ,
           let
           me
           not
           linger
           on
           ,
        
         
           But
           let
           that
           Sword
           (
           to
           mine
           ah
           !
           too
           well
           known
           )
        
         
         
           Me
           to
           my
           Brothers
           ,
           and
           my
           Husband
           send
           ;
        
         
           Your
           hand
           began
           ,
           your
           hand
           the
           work
           must
           end
           .
        
         
           But
           why
           such
           Cruelty
           ?
           come
           then
           ,
           and
           save
        
         
           Afflicted
           Greece
           ,
           and
           me
           your
           humble
           Slave
           .
        
         
           How
           much
           more
           decently
           might
           you
           employ
        
         
           Your
           ill-spent
           Rage
           against
           
             Neptunian
             Troy
          
           !
        
         
           Then
           furl
           your
           Sails
           ,
           once
           more
           your
           Anchors
           cast
           ;
        
         
           Leave
           not
           your
           Country
           ,
           nor
           your
           Honour
           blast
           .
        
         
           But
           go
           ,
           or
           stay
           ;
           with
           you
           I
           ought
           to
           move
           ,
        
         
           Made
           yours
           by
           Right
           of
           War
           ,
           and
           Right
           of
           Love.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           DEIANIRA
           TO
           HERCULES
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Deianira
             having
             heard
             that
             Hercules
             was
             fallen
             in
             Love
             with
             Iole
             a
             Captive
             ;
             and
             at
             the
             same
             time
             that
             he
             was
             dying
             by
             a
             poisoned
             Shirt
             she
             had
             presented
             him
             with
             ,
             and
             had
             been
             told
             would
             recover
             a
             lost
             affection
             :
             betwixt
             disdain
             and
             anger
             for
             the
             first
             ,
             and
             grief
             and
             despair
             for
             the
             latter
             ,
             she
             writes
             the
             following
             Lines
             to
             her
             Husband
             .
          
        
         
           I
           'Me
           pleas'd
           with
           the
           success
           your
           Valour
           gave
           ▪
        
         
           But
           grieve
           the
           Victor
           is
           his
           Captives
           slave
           .
        
         
           This
           unexpected
           News
           soon
           flew
           to
           me
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           your
           former
           Life
           does
           ill
           agree
           ▪
        
         
         
           Continual
           Action
           ,
           nor
           yet
           
           Iuno's
           Hate
           ,
        
         
           Ne're
           hurt
           whom
           Iole
           does
           Captivate
           ▪
        
         
           Eurystheus
           this
           ,
           this
           did
           Ioves
           Wife
           design
           ,
        
         
           Laugh
           at
           your
           weakness
           ,
           and
           these
           tears
           of
           mine
           ;
        
         
           But
           
             Iupiter
             hop'd
          
           better
           things
           ,
           when
           he
        
         
           To
           make
           this
           Hero
           ,
           made
           one
           night
           of
           three
           .
        
         
           Venus
           has
           hurt
           you
           more
           by
           her
           soft
           Charms
           ,
        
         
           Than
           angry
           Iuno
           that
           Employs
           your
           Arms
           ;
        
         
           She
           by
           depressing
           you
           ,
           rais'd
           you
           the
           more
           ,
        
         
           The
           other
           treads
           on
           you
           ,
           whom
           you
           adore
           .
        
         
           You'vefreed
           the
           World
           from
           troublers
           of
           mankind
           ,
        
         
           All
           things
           submit
           to
           your
           Heroick
           mind
           :
        
         
           You
           make
           the
           Seas
           secure
           ,
           the
           Earth
           have
           rest
           ,
        
         
           Your
           mighty
           Name
           fills
           both
           the
           East
           and
           West
           .
        
         
           Heaven
           ,
           that
           must
           bear
           you
           ,
           You
           did
           bear
           before
           ▪
        
         
           When
           weary
           Atlas
           did
           your
           aid
           Implore
           .
        
         
           Yet
           for
           all
           this
           ,
           the
           greater
           is
           your
           shame
           ,
        
         
           If
           with
           mean
           Acts
           you
           stain
           your
           Glorious
           Name
           .
        
         
         
           You
           kill'd
           two
           Serpents
           with
           your
           Infant
           hand
           ,
        
         
           Which
           then
           deserv'd
           Ioves
           Scepterto
           Command
           .
        
         
           Your
           last
           deeds
           differ
           from
           your
           first
           success
           ,
        
         
           The
           Infant
           makes
           the
           Man
           appear
           the
           less
           .
        
         
           No
           Savage
           Beasts
           ,
           nor
           feircer
           Enemies
           ,
        
         
           Cou'd
           Conquer
           him
           ,
           whom
           Love
           does
           now
           surprize
           .
        
         
           Some
           think
           my
           Marriage
           a
           great
           Happiness
           ,
        
         
           Being
           Ioves
           Daughter
           ,
           Wife
           of
           Hercules
           ;
        
         
           But
           as
           Extreams
           do
           very
           ill
           agree
           ,
        
         
           The
           Greatness
           of
           my
           Husband
           lessens
           me
           :
        
         
           This
           seeming
           Honour
           gives
           a
           mortal
           wound
           :
        
         
           Amongst
           our
           Equalls
           Happiness
           is
           found
           :
        
         
           At
           home
           in
           quiet
           they
           their
           Lives
           enjoy
           ;
        
         
           Tumults
           ,
           and
           Wars
           ,
           do
           all
           his
           hours
           employ
           :
        
         
           This
           Absence
           makes
           me
           so
           unfortunate
           ,
        
         
           I
           buy
           your
           Glory
           at
           too
           dear
           a
           rate
           .
        
         
           I
           weary
           Heaven
           with
           Vows
           and
           Sacrifice
           ,
        
         
           Least
           you
           should
           fall
           by
           Beasts
           ,
           or
           Enemies
           .
        
         
         
           When
           you
           assault
           a
           Lyon
           ,
           or
           Wild
           Boar
           ,
        
         
           You
           hazard
           much
           ,
           but
           I
           still
           hazard
           more
           .
        
         
           Srange
           Dreams
           and
           Visions
           set
           before
           mine
           Eyes
           ,
        
         
           The
           dangers
           that
           attend
           your
           Victories
           .
        
         
           Unhappy
           I
           to
           vain
           Reports
           give
           Ear
           ,
        
         
           Then
           vainly
           hope
           ,
           and
           then
           as
           vainly
           fear
           .
        
         
           Your
           absent
           Mother
           blushes
           she
           pleas'd
           Iove
           ,
        
         
           Amphitryos
           absent
           ,
           and
           the
           Son
           you
           love
           .
        
         
           I
           see
           Erystheus
           has
           contriv'd
           your
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           And
           will
           make
           use
           of
           
           Iuno's
           restless
           hat●
           .
        
         
           This
           I
           could
           bear
           ,
           did
           you
           love
           none
           but
           me
           ,
        
         
           But
           you
           are
           Amorous
           of
           all
           you
           see
           .
        
         
           Yet
           Omph●le
           does
           now
           enrage
           me
           more
           ,
        
         
           Than
           all
           the
           Beauties
           you
           admir'd
           before
           .
        
         
           Meanders
           Streams
           have
           seen
           those
           shoulders
           wear
        
         
           Rich
           Chains
           ,
           that
           Heav'n
           as
           a
           small
           weight
           did
           bear
           .
        
         
         
           But
           were
           you
           not
           ashamed
           to
           b●hold
        
         
           Those
           Arms
           weigh'd
           down
           with
           Jewels
           ,
           and
           with
           Gold
           ,
        
         
           That
           made
           the
           firce
           
             Nemean
             Lyon
          
           die
           ,
        
         
           And
           wore
           his
           Skin
           to
           shew
           the
           Victory
           ?
        
         
           When
           like
           a
           Woman
           you
           did
           dress
           your
           hair
           ,
        
         
           Lawrel
           had
           been
           for
           you
           a
           fitter
           wear
           .
        
         
           As
           Wanton
           Maids
           ,
           you
           thought
           it
           was
           no
           shame
        
         
           To
           wear
           a
           Sash
           to
           please
           your
           haughty
           Dame.
        
         
           Fierce
           D●omedes
           was
           not
           in
           your
           mind
           ,
        
         
           That
           fed
           his
           bloody
           Horses
           with
           mankind
           :
        
         
           Did
           but
           Busiris
           see
           this
           strange
           disguise
           ,
        
         
           The
           conquer'd
           would
           the
           Conquerour
           despise
           .
        
         
           Antëus
           would
           retreive
           his
           Captive
           State
           ,
        
         
           And
           scorn
           a
           Victor
           so
           Effeminate
           .
        
         
           Among
           the
           Grecian
           Virgins
           you
           sit
           down
           ,
        
         
           And
           spin
           ,
           and
           tremble
           at
           a
           Womans
           ●rown
           ;
        
         
           A
           Distaffe
           ,
           not
           a
           Scepter
           fills
           that
           Hand
           ,
        
         
           That
           Conquer'd
           all
           things
           ,
           and
           did
           all
           Command
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           in
           her
           presence
           you
           do
           trembling
           stand
           ,
        
         
           And
           fear
           a
           blow
           as
           death
           ,
           from
           her
           fair
           hand
           :
        
         
           And
           to
           regai●
           her
           Favour
           you
           reveal
        
         
           Those
           glorioous
           Actions
           you
           should
           then
           conceal
           .
        
         
           How
           you
           that
           strange
           and
           fruitful
           Serpent
           slew
           ,
        
         
           That
           by
           his
           wounds
           more
           fierce
           &
           stronger
           grew
           .
        
         
           How
           when
           you
           fought
           ,
           you
           never
           lost
           the
           field
           ,
        
         
           But
           made
           great
           Kings
           and
           cruel
           Monsters
           yield
           .
        
         
           And
           can
           you
           boast
           or
           think
           of
           things
           so
           great
           ,
        
         
           Now
           you
           wear
           Silks
           ,
           and
           are
           with
           Jewels
           set
           ?
        
         
           These
           Actions
           and
           that
           Garb
           do
           disagree
           ,
        
         
           So
           soft
           a
           dress
           do's
           give
           your
           tongue
           the
           lie
           .
        
         
           Your
           Mistress
           too
           puts
           on
           your
           Conqu'ring
           Arms
           ,
        
         
           And
           makes
           you
           stoop
           to
           her
           more
           pow'rful
           Charms
           .
        
         
           She
           wears
           your
           Robes
           to
           shew
           her
           Victory
           ,
        
         
           And
           is
           ,
           what
           you
           once
           thought
           your self
           to
           be
           .
        
         
           Your
           glorious
           Conquest
           ,
           and
           Illustrious
           Fame
           ,
        
         
           Give
           her
           Renown
           ,
           but
           you
           Eternal
           Shame
           .
        
         
         
           All
           is
           to
           her
           ,
           by
           whom
           you
           'r
           conquer'd
           ,
           due
           ;
        
         
           Go
           now
           and
           brag
           of
           what
           remains
           to
           you
           .
        
         
           Is
           't
           not
           a
           shame
           ,
           that
           her
           soft
           Arms
           should
           bear
        
         
           The
           Lyons
           rugged
           Skin
           you
           once
           did
           wear
           ?
        
         
           These
           Spoils
           are
           not
           the
           Lyons
           but
           your
           own
           ,
        
         
           The
           Beast
           you
           Conquer'd
           ,
           you
           she
           Overcome
           .
        
         
           She
           takes
           your
           Club
           up
           in
           her
           feeble
           hand
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           her
           Glass
           she
           learns
           how
           to
           Command
           .
        
         
           All
           this
           I
           heard
           :
           yet
           I
           could
           not
           believe
        
         
           The
           sad
           report
           ,
           which
           causes
           me
           to
           griev●
        
         
           Your
           Iole
           is
           brought
           before
           my
           face
           ,
        
         
           I
           must
           be
           Witness
           of
           my
           own
           disgrace
           .
        
         
           Whil'st
           I
           reflect
           on
           my
           unhappy
           Fate
           ,
        
         
           She
           makes
           her
           Entry
           in
           the
           Town
           in
           State.
        
         
           Not
           as
           a
           Captive
           with
           her
           hair
           unbound
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           her
           dejected
           Eyes
           ●ixt
           on
           the
           Ground
           ;
        
         
           But
           cover'd
           o're
           with
           Jewels
           ,
           and
           with
           Gold
           ,
        
         
           As
           Phrygia
           once
           did
           Hercules
           behold
           ;
        
         
         
           And
           salutes
           all
           with
           as
           much
           Majesty
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           her
           Father
           had
           the
           Victory
           .
        
         
           Perhaps
           to
           leave
           me
           is
           design'd
           by
           you
           ,
        
         
           True
           to
           your
           Mistress
           ,
           to
           your
           Wife
           untrue
           .
        
         
           You
           'l
           be
           Divorc't
           from
           me
           ,
           and
           Marry
           her
           ,
        
         
           The
           Conquer'd
           must
           obey
           the
           Conquerour
           .
        
         
           This
           fear
           torments
           me
           more
           than
           all
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           And
           as
           a
           Dagger
           ,
           wounds
           my
           troubled
           Breast
           .
        
         
           ●
           kn●w
           the
           time
           when
           you
           did
           love
           me
           more
           ,
        
         
           Than
           any
           she
           whom
           you
           do
           now
           adore
           .
        
         
           But
           oh
           !
           as
           I
           am
           writing
           ,
           the
           news
           flies
           ,
        
         
           That
           by
           a
           poison'd
           Shirt
           my
           Husband
           dies
           .
        
         
           What
           have
           I
           done
           ,
           whither
           has
           Love
           drove
           me
           ?
        
         
           Is
           Love
           the
           Authour
           of
           such
           crueltie
           ?
        
         
           Shall
           my
           dear
           Hercules
           endure
           this
           pain
           ,
        
         
           And
           I
           ,
           the
           unhappy
           Cause
           ,
           alive
           remain
           ?
        
         
           My
           Title
           to
           him
           ,
           by
           my
           Death
           I
           'le
           prove
           ,
        
         
           And
           surely
           Death
           's
           an
           Argument
           of
           Love.
        
         
         
           Meleager
           will
           a
           Sister
           find
           in
           me
           :
        
         
           Shall
           Deianira
           be
           afraid
           to
           die
           ?
        
         
           Unhappy
           House
           !
           Usurpers
           fill
           the
           Throne
           ,
        
         
           Whil'st
           the
           true
           Soveraign
           is
           esteem'd
           by
           none
           .
        
         
           One
           Brother
           wasts
           his
           Life
           in
           foreign
           Lands
           ,
        
         
           The
           other
           perish'd
           by
           his
           Mothers
           hands
           ,
        
         
           Who
           on
           her self
           reveng'd
           the
           Crime
           :
           Then
           why
        
         
           Should
           Deianira
           be
           afraid
           to
           die
           ?
        
         
           Only
           this
           thing
           I
           beg
           with
           my
           last
           breath
           ,
        
         
           Not
           to
           believe
           that
           I
           design'd
           your
           death
           .
        
         
           As
           soon
           as
           you
           struck
           Nessus
           with
           your
           Dart
           ,
        
         
           His
           blood
           ,
           he
           said
           ,
           would
           Charm
           a
           straying
           heart
           .
        
         
           In
           it
           I
           dipt
           the
           Shirt
           ,
           't
           was
           but
           to
           try
           :
        
         
           O
           Deianira
           make
           ,
           make
           hast
           to
           die
           ▪
        
         
           Adieu
           my
           Father
           ,
           Sister
           too
           adieu
           !
        
         
           Adieu
           my
           Country
           ,
           and
           my
           Brother
           too
           !
        
         
           Farewel
           this
           light
           ,
           the
           last
           that
           I
           shall
           see
           ,
        
         
           Hyllus
           farewel
           ,
           my
           Dear
           I
           come
           to
           Thee
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           ACONTIUS
           TO
           CYDIPPE
           .
        
         
           BY
           M
           r.
           
             R.
             DVKE
          
           .
        
         
           
             The
             ARGUMENT
             .
          
           
             Acontius
             in
             the
             Temple
             of
             Diana
             at
             Delos
             ,
             (
             famous
             for
             there
             sort
             of
             the
             most
             Beautiful
             Virgins
             of
             all
             Greece
             )
             fell
             in
             Love
             with
             Cydippe
             ,
             a
             Lady
             of
             Quality
             much
             above
             his
             own
             ;
             not
             daring
             therefore
             to
             Court
             her
             openly
             ,
             he
             found
             this
             device
             to
             obtain
             her
             :
             He
             writes
             upon
             the
             fairest
             Apple
             that
             could
             be
             procured
             ,
             a
             couple
             of
             Verses
             to
             this
             effect
             ,
             
               
                 I
                 swear
                 by
                 chast
                 Diana
                 ,
                 I
                 will
                 be
              
               
                 In
                 Sacred
                 Wedlock
                 ever
                 Joyn'd
                 to
                 Thee
                 .
              
            
             
             and
             throws
             it
             at
             the
             feet
             of
             the
             young
             Ladie
             .
             She
             suspecting
             not
             the
             deceit
             takes
             it
             up
             ,
             and
             reads
             it
             ,
             and
             therein
             promises
             her self
             in
             Marriage
             to
             Acontius
             ;
             there
             being
             a
             Law
             there
             in
             force
             ,
             that
             whatever
             any
             person
             should
             swear
             in
             the
             Temple
             of
             Diana
             of
             Delos
             ,
             should
             stand
             good
             and
             be
             inviolably
             observed
             .
             But
             her
             Father
             not
             knowing
             what
             had
             past
             ,
             and
             having
             not
             long
             after
             promised
             her
             to
             another
             ,
             just
             as
             the
             Solemnities
             of
             Marriage
             were
             to
             be
             perform'd
             ,
             she
             was
             taken
             with
             a
             suddain
             and
             violent
             Feavour
             ,
             which
             Acontius
             endeavours
             to
             perswade
             her
             was
             sent
             from
             Diana
             ,
             as
             a
             punishment
             of
             the
             breach
             of
             the
             Vow
             made
             in
             her
             presence
             .
             And
             this
             ,
             with
             the
             rest
             of
             the
             Arguments
             which
             on
             such
             an
             occasion
             would
             occur
             to
             a
             Lover
             ,
             is
             the
             Subject
             of
             the
             following
             Epistle
             .
          
        
         
           REad
           boldly
           this
           ;
           here
           you
           shall
           Swear
           no
           more
           ,
        
         
           For
           that
           's
           enough
           which
           you
           have
           Sworn
           before
           .
        
         
           Read
           it
           ;
           so
           may
           that
           violent
           Disease
           ,
        
         
           Which
           thy
           dear
           body
           ,
           but
           my
           soul
           doth
           seise
           ,
        
         
           Forget
           its
           too
           long
           practis'd
           Crueltie
           ,
        
         
           And
           health
           to
           you
           restore
           ,
           and
           you
           to
           me
           .
        
         
         
           Why
           do
           you
           blush
           ?
           for
           blush
           you
           do
           ,
           I
           fear
           ,
        
         
           As
           when
           you
           first
           did
           in
           the
           Temple
           Swear
           :
        
         
           Truth
           to
           your
           plighted
           Faith
           is
           all
           I
           claim
           ;
        
         
           And
           truth
           can
           never
           be
           the
           cause
           of
           shame
           .
        
         
           Shame
           lives
           with
           guilt
           ,
           but
           you
           your
           virtue
           prove
        
         
           In
           favouring
           mine
           ,
           for
           mine
           's
           a
           Husbands
           love
           .
        
         
           Ah!
           to
           your self
           those
           binding
           words
           repeat
        
         
           That
           once
           your
           wishing
           Eyes
           ev'nlong'd
           to
           meet
           ,
        
         
           When
           th'Apple
           brought
           'em
           dancing
           to
           your
           feet
           .
        
         
           There
           you
           will
           find
           the
           Solemn
           Vow
           you
           made
           ,
        
         
           Which
           ,
           if
           your
           health
           ,
           or
           mine
           can
           ought
           perswade
           ,
        
         
           You
           to
           perform
           should
           rather
           mindful
           be
           ,
        
         
           Than
           great
           Diana
           to
           rev●●ge
           on
           Thee
           .
        
         
           My
           fears
           for
           you
           encrease
           with
           my
           desire
           ,
        
         
           And
           Hope
           blows
           that
           already
           raging
           fire
           ;
        
         
           For
           hope
           you
           gave
           ;
           nor
           can
           you
           this
           deny
           ,
        
         
           For
           the
           great
           Goddess
           of
           the
           Fane
           was
           by
           ;
        
         
         
           She
           was
           ,
           and
           heard
           ,
           &
           from
           her
           hallowed
           Shrine
        
         
           A
           suddain
           kind
           Auspicious
           light
           did
           shine
           .
        
         
           Her
           Statue
           seem'd
           to
           nod
           its
           awful
           head
           ,
        
         
           And
           give
           its
           glad
           consent
           to
           what
           you
           said
           ;
        
         
           Now
           ,
           if
           you
           please
           ,
           accuse
           my
           prosperous
           cheat
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           still
           confess
           't
           was
           Love
           that
           taught
           me
           it
           .
        
         
           In
           that
           deceit
           what
           did
           I
           else
           design
           ,
        
         
           But
           with
           your
           own
           consent
           to
           make
           you
           mine
           ?
        
         
           What
           you
           my
           Crime
           ,
           I
           call
           my
           Innocence
           ,
        
         
           Since
           Loving
           you
           has
           been
           my
           sole
           offence
           .
        
         
           Nor
           nature
           gave
           me
           ,
           nor
           has
           practice
           taught
        
         
           The
           Nets
           with
           which
           young
           Virgins
           hearts
           are
           caught
           .
        
         
           You
           my
           accuser
           taught
           me
           to
           deceive
           ,
        
         
           And
           Love
           ,
           with
           you
           ,
           did
           his
           assistance
           give
           ;
        
         
           For
           Love
           stood
           by
           ,
           and
           smiling
           bad
           me
           write
        
         
           The
           cunning
           words
           he
           did
           himself
           indite
           :
        
         
           Again
           ,
           you
           see
           I
           write
           by
           his
           Command
           ,
        
         
           He
           guides
           my
           Pen
           ,
           and
           rules
           my
           willing
           hand
           ,
        
         
         
           Again
           such
           kind
           ,
           such
           loving
           words
           I
           send
           ,
        
         
           As
           makes
           me
           fear
           that
           I
           again
           offend
           .
        
         
           Yet
           if
           my
           Love
           's
           my
           Crime
           ,
           I
           must
           confess
           ,
        
         
           Great
           is
           my
           Guilt
           ,
           but
           never
           shall
           be
           less
           .
        
         
           Oh
           that
           I
           thus
           might
           ever
           guilty
           prove
           ,
        
         
           In
           finding
           out
           new
           paths
           to
           reach
           thy
           Love.
        
         
           A
           thousand
           waies
           to
           that
           steep
           Mountain
           lead
           ,
        
         
           Tho
           hard
           to
           find
           ,
           and
           difficult
           to
           tread
           .
        
         
           All
           these
           will
           I
           find
           out
           and
           break
           through
           all
           ,
        
         
           For
           with
           my
           Flames
           compar'd
           ,
           the
           danger
           's
           small
           .
        
         
           The
           Gods
           alone
           know
           what
           the
           end
           will
           be
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           if
           we
           Mortals
           any
           thing
           foresee
           ,
        
         
           One
           way
           or
           other
           you
           must
           yield
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           If
           all
           my
           Arts
           should
           fail
           ,
           to
           Arms
           I
           'le
           fly
           ,
        
         
           And
           snatch
           by
           force
           what
           you
           my
           Prayers
           deny
           :
        
         
           I
           all
           those
           Heroes
           mighty
           Acts
           applaud
           ,
        
         
           Who
           first
           have
           led
           me
           this
           Illustrious
           Road
           ▪
        
         
         
           I
           too●
           but
           hold
           ,
           death
           the
           reward
           will
           be
           ,
        
         
           Death
           be
           it
           then
           —
        
         
           For
           to
           loose
           you
           is
           more
           than
           death
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           Were
           you
           less
           fair
           ,
           I
           'd
           use
           the
           vulgar
           way
        
         
           Of
           tedious
           Courtship
           ,
           and
           of
           dull
           delay
           .
        
         
           But
           thy
           bright
           form
           kindles
           more
           eager
           fires
           ,
        
         
           And
           something
           wondrous
           ,
           as
           it self
           ,
           Inspires
           ;
        
         
           Those
           Eyes
           that
           all
           the
           Heavenly
           lights
           outshine
           ,
        
         
           (
           Which
           Oh!
           may'st
           thou
           behold
           ,
           &
           love
           in
           mine
           )
        
         
           Those
           snowy
           Arms
           ,
           which
           on
           my
           neck
           should
           fall
           ,
        
         
           If
           you
           the
           Vows
           you
           made
           ,
           regard
           at
           all
           ,
        
         
           That
           modest
           sweetness
           ,
           and
           becoming
           Grace
           ,
        
         
           That
           paints
           with
           living
           red
           your
           blushing
           face
           ,
        
         
           Those
           feet
           with
           which
           they
           only
           can
           compare
           ,
        
         
           That
           through
           the
           Silver
           flood
           bright
           Thetis
           bear
           :
        
         
           Do
           all
           conspire
           my
           madness
           to
           excite
           ,
        
         
           With
           all
           the
           rest
           that
           is
           deny'd
           to
           ●ight
           .
        
         
         
           Which
           could
           I
           praise
           ,
           alike
           I
           then
           were
           blest
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           the
           storms
           of
           my
           vex'd
           soul
           at
           rest
           .
        
         
           No
           wonder
           then
           if
           with
           such
           Beauty
           fir'd
           ,
        
         
           I
           of
           your
           Love
           the
           Sacred
           pledge
           desir'd
           .
        
         
           Rage
           now
           and
           be
           as
           angry
           as
           you
           will
           ,
        
         
           Your
           very
           frowns
           all
           other
           smiles
           excel
           ;
        
         
           But
           give
           me
           leave
           that
           anger
           to
           appease
           ,
        
         
           By
           my
           submission
           ,
           that
           my
           Love
           did
           raise
           .
        
         
           Your
           pardon
           prostrate
           at
           your
           feet
           I
           'le
           crave
           ,
        
         
           The
           humble
           posture
           of
           your
           guilty
           Slave
           .
        
         
           With
           falling
           tears
           your
           fiery
           rage
           I
           'le
           cool
           ,
        
         
           And
           lay
           the
           rising
           tempest
           of
           your
           soul.
        
         
           Why
           in
           my
           absence
           are
           you
           thu●
           severe
           ?
        
         
           Summon'd
           at
           your
           Tribunal
           to
           appear
           ,
        
         
           For
           all
           my
           Crimes
           ,
           I
           'd
           gladly
           suffer
           there
           ,
        
         
           With
           pride
           whatever
           you
           inflict
           receive
           ,
        
         
           And
           love
           the
           wounds
           those
           hands
           vouchsafe
           to
           give
           .
        
         
         
           Your
           Fetters
           too
           —
           But
           they
           alas
           are
           vain
           ,
        
         
           For
           Love
           has
           bound
           me
           ,
           and
           I
           hug
           my
           Chain
           .
        
         
           Your
           hardest
           Laws
           with
           patience
           I
           'le
           obey
           ,
        
         
           Till
           you
           your self
           at
           last
           relent
           and
           say
           ,
        
         
           When
           all
           my
           sufferings
           you
           with
           pity
           see
           ,
        
         
           He
           that
           can
           love
           so
           well
           ,
           is
           worthy
           me
           .
        
         
           But
           if
           all
           this
           should
           unsuccessful
           prove
           ,
        
         
           Diana
           claims
           for
           me
           your
           promis'd
           love
           .
        
         
           O
           may
           my
           fears
           be
           false
           !
           yet
           she
           delights
        
         
           In
           just
           revenge
           of
           her
           abused
           Rites
           ,
        
         
           I
           Dread
           to
           hide
           ,
           what
           yet
           to
           speak
           I
           dread
           ,
        
         
           Least
           you
           should
           think
           that
           for
           my self
           I
           plead
           .
        
         
           Yet
           out
           it
           must
           ,
           —
           't
           is
           this
           ,
           'T
           is
           surely
           this
           ,
        
         
           That
           is
           the
           fuel
           to
           your
           hot
           disease
           :
        
         
           When
           waiting
           Hymen
           at
           your
           Porch
           attends
           ,
        
         
           Her
           fatal
           Messenger
           the
           Goddess
           sends
           .
        
         
           And
           when
           you
           would
           to
           his
           kind
           call
           consent
           ,
        
         
           This
           Feavour
           does
           your
           perjury
           prevent
           .
        
         
         
           Forbear
           ,
           forbear
           thus
           to
           provoke
           her
           rage
           ,
        
         
           Which
           you
           so
           easily
           may
           yet
           aswage
           .
        
         
           Forbear
           to
           make
           that
           lovely
           charming
           face
        
         
           The
           prey
           to
           every
           envious
           disease
           :
        
         
           Preserve
           those
           looks
           to
           be
           enjoy'd
           by
           me
           ,
        
         
           Which
           none
           should
           ever
           but
           with
           wonder
           see
           :
        
         
           Let
           that
           fresh
           colour
           to
           your
           cheeks
           return
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           glowing
           flame
           did
           all
           beholders
           burn
           .
        
         
           But
           let
           on
           him
           ,
           th'
           unhappy
           cause
           of
           all
        
         
           The
           ills
           that
           from
           
           Diana's
           anger
           fall
           ,
        
         
           No
           greater
           torments
           light
           than
           those
           I
           feel
           ,
        
         
           When
           you
           my
           dearest
           ,
           tendrest
           part
           are
           ill
           .
        
         
           For
           oh
           !
           with
           what
           dire
           Tortures
           am
           I
           wrackt
           ,
        
         
           Whom
           different
           griefs
           successively
           distract
           !
        
         
           Sometimes
           my
           grief
           from
           this
           do's
           higher
           grow
           ,
        
         
           To
           think
           that
           I
           have
           caus'd
           so
           much
           to
           you
           .
        
         
           Then
           ,
           great
           
           Diana's
           witness
           ,
           how
           I
           pray
           ,
        
         
           That
           all
           our
           Crimes
           on
           me
           alone
           she
           'd
           lay
           !
        
         
         
           Sometimes
           to
           your
           lov'd
           doors
           disguis'd
           I
           come
           ,
        
         
           And
           all
           around
           'em
           up
           and
           down
           I
           roam
           .
        
         
           Till
           I
           your
           Woman
           coming
           from
           you
           spy
           ,
        
         
           With
           looks
           dejected
           ,
           and
           a
           weeping
           eye
           .
        
         
           With
           silent
           steps
           ,
           like
           some
           sad
           Ghost
           I
           steal
        
         
           Close
           up
           to
           her
           ,
           and
           urge
           her
           to
           reveal
        
         
           More
           than
           new
           questions
           suffer
           her
           to
           tell
           :
        
         
           How
           you
           had
           slept
           ,
           what
           dyet
           you
           had
           us'd
           ?
        
         
           And
           oft
           the
           vain
           Phisicians
           art
           accus'd
           .
        
         
           He
           every
           hour
           (
           Oh
           ,
           were
           I
           blest
           as
           he
           !
           )
        
         
           Do's
           all
           the
           turns
           of
           your
           Distemper
           see
           ;
        
         
           Why
           sit
           not
           I
           by
           your
           Bed
           side
           all
           day
           ,
        
         
           My
           mournful
           head
           in
           your
           warm
           bosom
           lay
           ,
        
         
           Till
           with
           my
           tears
           the
           inward
           fires
           decay
           ?
        
         
           Why
           press
           not
           I
           your
           melting
           hand
           in
           mine
           ,
        
         
           And
           from
           your
           pulse
           of
           my
           own
           health
           divine
           ?
        
         
         
           But
           oh
           !
           these
           wishes
           all
           are
           vain
           ;
           and
           He
        
         
           Whom
           most
           I
           fear
           ,
           may
           now
           sit
           close
           by
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           Forgetful
           as
           thou
           art
           of
           Heaven
           and
           me
           .
        
         
           He
           that
           lov'd
           hand
           do's
           press
           ,
           and
           oft
           do's
           feign
        
         
           Some
           new
           excuse
           to
           seel
           thy
           beating
           vein
           .
        
         
           Then
           his
           bold
           hand
           up
           to
           your
           arm
           do's
           slide
           ,
        
         
           And
           in
           your
           panting
           Breast
           it self
           do's
           hide
           ;
        
         
           Kisses
           sometimes
           he
           snatches
           too
           from
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           For
           his
           officious
           care
           too
           great
           a
           Fee.
        
         
           Robber
           ,
           who
           gave
           Thee
           leave
           to
           tast
           that
           lip
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           ripe
           harvest
           of
           my
           kisses
           reap
           ?
        
         
           For
           they
           are
           mine
           ,
           so
           is
           that
           bosom
           too
           ,
        
         
           Which
           false
           as
           't
           is
           ,
           shall
           never
           harbour
           You.
        
         
           Take
           ,
           take
           away
           those
           thy
           Adulterous
           hands
           ,
        
         
           ●
           or
           know
           another
           Lord
           that
           breast
           Commands
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           true
           ,
           Her
           Father
           promis'd
           her
           to
           Thee
           ,
        
         
           But
           Heaven
           and
           she
           first
           gave
           her self
           to
           me
           .
        
         
           And
           you
           in
           Justice
           therefore
           should
           decline
        
         
         
           Your
           claim
           to
           that
           which
           is
           already
           mine
           .
        
         
           This
           is
           the
           man
           ,
           Cydippe
           ,
           that
           excites
        
         
           Dianas
           rage
           ,
           to
           vindicate
           her
           Rites
           .
        
         
           Command
           him
           then
           not
           to
           approach
           thy
           door
           ,
        
         
           This
           done
           ,
           the
           danger
           of
           your
           death
           is
           o're
           .
        
         
           For
           fear
           not
           ,
           Beauteous
           Maid
           ,
           but
           keep
           thy
           Vow
           ,
        
         
           Which
           great
           Diana
           heard
           ,
           and
           did
           allow
           .
        
         
           And
           she
           who
           took
           it
           ,
           will
           thy
           health
           restore
           ,
        
         
           And
           be
           propitious
           as
           she
           was
           before
           .
        
         
           "
           'T
           is
           not
           the
           steam
           of
           a
           slain
           Heifers
           blood
           ,
        
         
           "
           Than
           can
           allay
           the
           anger
           of
           a
           God.
        
         
           "
           'T
           is
           truth
           ,
           and
           Justice
           to
           our
           Vows
           ,
           appease
        
         
           "
           Their
           angry
           Deities
           ,
           and
           without
           these
           ,
        
         
           "
           No
           ●laughter'd
           Breast
           their
           fury
           can
           divert
           ;
        
         
           "
           For
           that
           's
           a
           Sacrifice
           without
           a
           Heart
           .
        
         
           Some
           ,
           bitter
           Potions
           patiently
           endure
           ,
        
         
           And
           kiss
           the
           wounding
           Lance
           that
           works
           their
           cure
           ;
        
         
           You
           have
           no
           need
           these
           cruel
           cures
           to
           feel
           ,
        
         
         
           Shun
           being
           perjur'd
           only
           ,
           and
           be
           well
           .
        
         
           Why
           let
           you
           still
           your
           pious
           Parents
           weep
           ,
        
         
           Whom
           you
           in
           ign'rance
           of
           your
           promise
           keep
           ?
        
         
           Oh!
           to
           your
           Mother
           all
           our
           Story
           tell
           ,
        
         
           And
           the
           whole
           progress
           of
           our
           Love
           reveal
           :
        
         
           Tell
           Her
           how
           first
           at
           great
           Dianas
           Shrine
           ,
        
         
           I
           fixt
           my
           eyes
           ,
           my
           wondring
           eyes
           on
           thine
           .
        
         
           How
           like
           the
           Statues
           there
           ,
           I
           stood
           amaz'd
           ,
        
         
           Whil'st
           on
           thy
           face
           intemp'rately
           I
           gaz'd
           .
        
         
           She
           will
           her self
           when
           you
           my
           tale
           repeat
           ,
        
         
           Smile
           ,
           and
           approve
           the
           Amorous
           deceit
           .
        
         
           Marry
           ,
           she
           'll
           say
           ,
           whom
           Heaven
           commends
           to
           thee
           ,
        
         
           He
           who
           has
           pleas'd
           Diana
           ,
           pleases
           me
           .
        
         
           But
           should
           she
           ask
           from
           what
           descent
           I
           came
           ,
        
         
           My
           Country
           ,
           and
           my
           Parents
           ,
           and
           my
           name
           ,
        
         
           Tell
           her
           that
           none
           of
           these
           deserve
           my
           shame
           .
        
         
           Had
           you
           not
           sworn
           ,
           you
           such
           a
           one
           might
           choose
           ;
        
         
           But
           were
           he
           worse
           ,
           now
           sworn
           ,
           you
           can't
           refuse
           .
        
         
         
           This
           in
           my
           dreams
           Diana
           Bad
           me
           write
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           I
           wak'd
           ,
           sent
           Cupid
           to
           indite
           :
        
         
           Obey
           'em
           both
           ,
           for
           one
           has
           wounded
           me
           ,
        
         
           Which
           wound
           if
           you
           with
           eyes
           of
           pity
           see
           ,
        
         
           She
           too
           will
           soon
           relent
           that
           wounded
           Thee
           .
        
         
           Then
           to
           our
           joys
           with
           eager
           hast
           we
           'll
           move
           ,
        
         
           As
           full
           of
           Beauty
           you
           ,
           as
           I
           of
           Love.
        
         
           To
           the
           great
           Temple
           we
           'll
           in
           Triumph
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           our
           Offerings
           at
           the
           Altar
           Bow.
        
         
           A
           Golden
           Image
           there
           I
           'le
           Consecrate
           ,
        
         
           Of
           the
           false
           Apples
           innocent
           deceit
           ;
        
         
           And
           write
           below
           the
           happy
           Verse
           that
           came
           ,
        
         
           The
           Messenger
           of
           my
           successful
           flame
           ;
        
         
           "
           Let
           all
           the
           World
           this
           from
           Acontius
           know
           ,
        
         
           
             "
             Cydippe
          
           has
           been
           faithful
           to
           her
           Vow
           .
        
         
           More
           I
           could
           write
           ,
           but
           since
           thy
           illness
           reigns
           ,
        
         
           And
           wracks
           thy
           tender
           limbs
           with
           sharpest
           pains
           ,
        
         
           My
           Pen
           falls
           down
           for
           fear
           ,
           lest
           this
           might
           be
        
         
           Althô
           for
           me
           too
           little
           ,
           yet
           too
           much
           for
           Thee
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           CYDIPPE
           Her
           ANSWER
           To
           ACONTIUS
           .
        
         
           By
           Mr.
           BVTLER
           .
        
         
           IN
           silent
           Fear
           I
           read
           your
           Letter
           ore
           ;
        
         
           Least
           I
           shou'd
           Swear
           as
           I
           had
           done
           before
           !
        
         
           Nor
           had
           I
           read
           ,
           but
           that
           I
           fear'd
           t'
           engage
        
         
           By
           my
           neglect
           the
           pevish
           Goddess
           Rage
           :
        
         
           In
           vain
           I
           deck
           her
           Shrine
           ,
           her
           Rites
           attend
           ,
        
         
           The
           partial
           Goddess
           still
           remains
           your
           Friend
           .
        
         
           A
           Virgin
           rather
           shou'd
           a
           Virgin
           Aid
           ,
        
         
           But
           where
           I
           seek
           Relief
           I
           am
           betray'd
           !
        
         
           I
           languish
           ,
           and
           the
           Cause
           of
           my
           Disease
        
         
           As
           yet
           lies
           hid
           ,
           no
           Medicine
           gives
           me
           Ease
           .
        
         
           In
           how
           much
           pain
           do
           I
           this
           Letter
           write
           !
        
         
           To
           my
           weak
           Hand
           my
           sicklier
           Thoughts
           indite
           :
        
         
           What
           anxious
           fear
           alas
           afflicts
           me
           too
           ,
        
         
           Least
           any
           but
           my
           trusty
           Nurse
           shou'd
           know
           !
        
         
         
           To
           gain
           me
           time
           to
           write
           ,
           the
           door
           she
           keeps
           ,
        
         
           And
           whispering
           tells
           the
           Visitants
           ,
           
             She
             Sleeps
          
           .
        
         
           Worse
           Ills
           I
           could
           not
           for
           your
           sake
           sustain
           ,
        
         
           Tho
           you
           had
           merit
           equal
           to
           my
           Pain
           .
        
         
           Your
           Love
           betrays
           ,
           my
           Beauty
           proves
           my
           Snare
           ,
        
         
           I
           had
           been
           happy
           had
           I
           seem'd
           less
           Fair
           :
        
         
           Whilst
           with
           your
           Rival
           you
           contend
           to
           raise
        
         
           My
           Beauty's
           Fame
           ,
           I
           perish
           by
           your
           Praise
           :
        
         
           Whilst
           neither
           will
           admit
           the
           others
           Claim
           ,
        
         
           The
           Chase
           is
           hinder'd
           ,
           and
           both
           miss
           the
           Game
           .
        
         
           My
           Nuptial
           day
           draws
           on
           ,
           my
           Parents
           press
        
         
           The
           Sacred
           Rights
           ,
           my
           blooming
           years
           no
           less
           .
        
         
           But
           whilst
           glad
           Hymen
           at
           my
           door
           attends
           ,
        
         
           Grim
           Death
           waits
           near
           to
           force
           me
           from
           his
           Hands
           .
        
         
           Some
           call
           my
           Sickness
           Chance
           ,
           and
           some
           pretend
        
         
           The
           Gods
           this
           Lett
           to
           cross
           my
           Nuptials
           send
           ;
        
         
           Whilst
           by
           severer
           Censure
           you
           are
           ghest
           ,
        
         
           By
           
           Philtra's
           ,
           to
           have
           wrought
           upon
           my
           Breast
           .
        
         
         
           If
           then
           your
           love
           such
           mischief
           can
           create
           ,
        
         
           What
           Miserie
           is
           reserv'd
           for
           her
           you
           Hate
           !
        
         
           Wou'd
           I
           to
           Delos
           nere
           had
           found
           the
           way
           ,
        
         
           At
           least
           not
           found
           it
           on
           that
           fatal
           Day
           !
        
         
           When
           in
           our
           Port
           our
           Anchors
           first
           we
           weigh'd
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           unwilling
           Vessel
           still
           i'
           th
           Harbour
           staid
           ;
        
         
           Twice
           did
           cross
           winds
           beat
           back
           our
           flagging
           Sails
           ,
        
         
           Said
           I
           ,
           cross
           winds
           ?
           no!
           those
           were
           prosprous
           Gales
           !
        
         
           Those
           winds
           alone
           blew
           fair
           ,
           that
           back
           convey'd
        
         
           Our
           Ship
           ,
           and
           those
           that
           oft
           our
           Passage
           stay'd
           .
        
         
           Yet
           I
           to
           see
           sam'd
           Delos
           am
           in
           pain
           ,
        
         
           And
           fondly
           of
           each
           hindring
           blast
           complain
           .
        
         
           By
           Tenos
           Isle
           ,
           and
           Mycone
           we
           Steer'd
           ,
        
         
           At
           last
           fair
           Delos
           winding
           Clifts
           appear'd
           ;
        
         
           And
           much
           I
           fear
           left
           now
           the
           Fairy
           Shore
           ,
        
         
           Shou'd
           vanish
           ,
           as
           't
           is
           said
           t'
           have
           done
           before
           .
        
         
           At
           night
           we
           Land
           ,
           soon
           as
           the
           day
           return'd
        
         
           My
           platted
           Tresses
           are
           with
           Gemms
           adorn'd
           .
        
         
         
           Then
           to
           attend
           the
           Sacred
           Rites
           we
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           pious
           Incense
           on
           each
           Altar
           throw
           ,
        
         
           My
           Parents
           there
           at
           their
           Devotion
           stay
           ;
        
         
           My
           Nurse
           and
           I
           through
           all
           the
           Temple
           stray
           :
        
         
           We
           view
           each
           Court
           ,
           &
           each
           ,
           fresh
           wonder
           brings
           ;
        
         
           Pictures
           ,
           and
           Statues
           ,
           Gifts
           of
           Ancient
           Kings
           .
        
         
           But
           whilst
           into
           these
           Rarities
           I
           pry'd
           ,
        
         
           I
           am
           my self
           by
           ●ly
           Acontius
           spy'd
           .
        
         
           Thence
           to
           the
           inmost
           Temple
           we
           remove
           ,
        
         
           The
           place
           that
           should
           a
           Sanctuary
           prove
           .
        
         
           Yet
           there
           I
           find
           the
           Apple
           with
           this
           Rhime
           —
        
         
           Ah!
           me
           ,
           I
           'de
           like
           to
           have
           Sworn
           the
           second
           time
           !
        
         
           The
           Name
           of
           Wedlock
           I
           no
           sooner
           read
           ,
        
         
           But
           through
           my
           Cheeks
           a
           troubled
           blush
           was
           spread
           .
        
         
           Why
           didst
           Thou
           Cheat
           an
           unsuspecting
           Maid
           ?
        
         
           I
           shou'd
           have
           been
           entreated
           ,
           not
           betray'd
           :
        
         
           Is
           then
           the
           Goddess
           bound
           to
           take
           thy
           part
           ?
        
         
           And
           ratifie
           an
           Oath
           without
           the
           Heart
           ?
        
         
         
           The
           Will
           Consents
           ,
           but
           that
           was
           Absent
           There
           ;
        
         
           I
           read
           indeed
           the
           Oath
           ,
           but
           did
           not
           Swear
           .
        
         
           Yet
           cannot
           I
           deny
           that
           I
           suspect
        
         
           Dianas
           Rage
           this
           Sickness
           do's
           inflict
           ;
        
         
           Glad
           Hymen
           thrice
           did
           to
           our
           Courts
           repair
           ,
        
         
           Thrice
           frighted
           fled
           to
           find
           Death
           planted
           there
           .
        
         
           Thin
           Cov'rings
           on
           my
           Feaverish
           Limbs
           are
           spread
           ,
        
         
           My
           Parents
           mourn
           me
           as
           already
           Dead
           .
        
         
           What
           have
           I
           done
           to
           merit
           this
           distress
           ,
        
         
           That
           read
           but
           words
           whose
           fraud
           I
           cou'd
           not
           ghess
           !
        
         
           Do
           Thou
           ,
           ev'n
           Thou
           from
           whom
           my
           suffrings
           spring
           ,
        
         
           T'
           appease
           the
           Goddess
           Rage
           thine
           Offrings
           bring
           .
        
         
           When
           will
           those
           Hands
           that
           writ
           the
           fatal
           Rhime
           ,
        
         
           Bear
           Incense
           to
           remove
           my
           Pain
           ,
           thy
           Crime
           !
        
         
           Nor
           think
           that
           thy
           rich
           Rival
           tho'
           allow'd
        
         
           To
           Visit
           ,
           is
           of
           greater
           Favours
           proud
           .
        
         
           By
           me
           he
           sits
           ,
           but
           still
           just
           distance
           keeps
           ,
        
         
           Restless
           as
           I
           ,
           Talks
           seldom
           ,
           often
           weeps
           :
        
         
         
           Blushing
           he
           takes
           a
           Kiss
           ,
           and
           leaves
           a
           Tear
           ,
        
         
           And
           once
           his
           Courage
           serv'd
           to
           Cry
           —
           My
           Dear
           .
        
         
           But
           from
           his
           Arms
           still
           by
           Degrees
           I
           creep
           ,
        
         
           And
           to
           prevent
           Discourse
           pretend
           to
           sleep
           .
        
         
           He
           finds
           ,
           but
           wou'd
           his
           sense
           o'
           th
           flight
           disguise
           ,
        
         
           He
           checks
           his
           Tongue
           ,
           butchides
           me
           with
           his
           Eyes
           .
        
         
           With
           grief
           he
           wasts
           ,
           and
           I
           with
           Feavours
           pine
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           we
           that
           suffer
           ,
           but
           th'
           Offence
           was
           Thine
           .
        
         
           You
           write
           for
           leave
           to
           come
           and
           see
           me
           Here
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           know
           your
           former
           Visit
           cost
           me
           Dear
           .
        
         
           Why
           wouldst
           thou
           hither
           come
           ,
           thou
           canst
           but
           see
        
         
           The
           double
           Trophies
           of
           thy
           Cruelty
           .
        
         
           My
           flesh
           consum'd
           ,
           my
           Cheeks
           of
           bloodless
           Hue
           ,
        
         
           Such
           as
           I
           once
           did
           in
           thy
           Apple
           view
           ,
        
         
           Shou'dst
           see
           me
           now
           thou
           woud'st
           repent
           thy
           cheat
           ,
        
         
           Nor
           think
           me
           worth
           such
           exquisite
           Deceit
           .
        
         
           To
           Delos
           back
           with
           greater
           hast
           wou'dst
           go
           ,
        
         
           And
           beg
           the
           Goddess
           to
           release
           my
           Vow
           ,
        
         
         
           On
           new
           designs
           thy
           fancy
           would'st
           employ
           ,
        
         
           Contrive
           new
           Oaths
           the
           former
           to
           destroy
           .
        
         
           No
           Means
           have
           been
           omitted
           to
           procure
        
         
           My
           health
           ,
           but
           still
           my
           Feav'rish
           Fits
           endure
           .
        
         
           We
           ask'd
           the
           Oracle
           what
           caus'd
           my
           Pains
           ?
        
         
           The
           Oracle
           of
           broken
           Vows
           complains
           !
        
         
           The
           Gods
           themselves
           on
           your
           behalf
           declare
           :
        
         
           What
           hast
           thou
           done
           to
           merit
           this
           their
           Care
           ?
        
         
           But
           so
           it
           is
           —
           and
           I
           at
           last
           incline
           ,
        
         
           Since
           that
           Thou
           art
           their
           Choice
           ,
           to
           make
           Thee
           Mine
           .
        
         
           Already
           to
           my
           Mother
           I
           've
           declar'd
           ,
        
         
           How
           by
           your
           Cunning
           I
           have
           been
           ensnar'd
           .
        
         
           I
           've
           done
           ,
           and
           what
           I
           have
           already
           said
           ,
        
         
           I
           fear
           is
           more
           than
           will
           become
           a
           Maid
           .
        
         
           My
           Thoughts
           are
           now
           confus'd
           ,
           and
           can
           indite
        
         
           No
           more
           ,
           my
           feeble
           hand
           no
           more
           can
           write
           .
        
         
           Nor
           need
           I
           more
           subscribe
           ,
           but
           this
           ,
           Be
           True
           !
        
         
           And
           (
           since
           it
           must
           be
           so
           )
           
             my
             Dear
             Adieu
          
           .
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A53606-e160
           
             Earl
             of
             Rosc.