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He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambaffador restrain;
I fcorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lofe thy heart.
Can nothing e'er, rekindle love in thee?
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my person, give the rest,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No fecond infult need my fondness fear :
He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, defpairs, and dies.
Come to my arms, thou dear deferving youth!
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth!
For him, I will redouble every care,
To please, for him, these faded charms repair;
To crown his vows, and fharpen thy despair.
Oh! 'tis illufion all! and idle rage!
No fecond paffion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, fhall thy Flora prove,
may diffolve, but nothing change her love.
ARISBE to MARIUS Junior.
From FONTENELLE. By the Same.
When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction, and retired into Africa, his fon (who accompanied him) fell into the bands of Hiempfal king of Numidia, who kept him prifoner. One of the miftreffes of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was fo generous to contrive and give him his liberty, though by that means fhe facrificed her love for ever. 'Twas after be kad rejoin'd his father, that she writ him the following letter.
F all I valued, all I lov'd, bereft,
Say, has my heart this little comfort left?
That you the mem'ry of its truth retain,
And think with grateful pity on my pain?
Though but with life my forrows can have end,
(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I fet you free,
I mourn your abfence, not your liberty.
Before my Marius left Numidia's coast,
Each day I faw him; fcarce an hour was lost:
Now months and years must pass, nay life fhall prove
But one long absence from the man I love.
Painful reflection! poyfon to my mind!
Was it but mortal too, it would be kind:
But mad with grief I fearch the palace round,
And in that madness dream you're to be found.
Would'st thou believe it? to those walls I fly
Where thou wert captive held; there frantic
These fetters fure my vagrant's flight restrain'd;
Alas! these fetters I myself unchain'd.
The live-long day I mourn, I loath the light,
And wait impatient each returning night:
What, though the horrid gloom augment my grief?
'Tis grateful ftill, for I difclaim relief.
That coz❜ner hope intrudes not on my woe;
One only interval my forrows know;
When dreams, the kind reverfers of my pain,
Bring back my charming fugitive again.
Yet there's a grief furpaffing all the reft;
A jealous dæmon whifpers in my breast,
Marius was falfe, for liberty alone
The show of love the hypocrite put on.
Then I reflect (ah! would I could forget!)
How much your thoughts on war and Rome were set. How little paffion did that conduct prove!
Too frong thy reafon, but too weak thy love.
Thy fword, 'tis true, a father's cause demands;
But 'twas a mistress gave it to thy hands:
To love, and duty juft, give each their part,
His be the arm, and mine be all thy heart.
But what avail these thoughts? fond wretch, give o'er!
Marius, or falfe, or true, is thine no more:
Since Fate has caft the lot, and we must part,
Why should I wish to think I had his heart?
Yes: let me cherish that remembrance ftill;
That thought alone fhail foften every ill;
To tell my foul, his love, his truth was such,
All was his due, nor have I done too much,
Deceitful comfort! let me not perfuade
My cred❜lous heart its fondness was repaid;
It makes my foul with double anguish mourn
Those joys, which never, never must return.
Perhaps év'n you what most I wish oppose,
And in the Roman all the lover lofe:
I'm a Numidian, and your foul difdains
To bear th' inglorious weight of foreign chains.
Can any climate then fo barb'rous prove,
To stand excluded from the laws of Love?
His empire's univerfal, unconfin'd,
His proxy beauty, and his flaves mankind.
Nor am I a Numidian but by name,
For I can int'reft for my love disclaim:
My virtue fhews what 'twas the gods defign'd,
By chance on Afric's clay they stamp'd a Roman mind.
Not all the heroes which your Rome can boast,
So much for fame, as I for you have loft:
Yourself I loft: oh! grateful, then confess,
My tryal greater, though my glory less.