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grief fhall fwell my fails, and speed me o'er (Despair my pilot) to that quiet fhore

Where I can truft, and thou betray no more.

Might I but once again behold thy charms,

Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My foften'd fate I would accufe no more;
But fate has no fuch happiness in store.

'Tis paft, 'tis done-what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?
Why then this care?-'tis weak-'tis vain-farewel
At that last word what agonies I feel!

I faint - I die- remember I was true-
'Tis all I afk-eternally adieu! -

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FLORA

FLORA to POMPE Y.

By the Same.

Pompey, when he was very young, fell in love with Flora, a Roman courtezan, who was fo very beautiful that the Romans bad her painted to adorn the temple of Caftor and Pollux. Geminius (Pompey's friend) afterwards fell in love with her too; but she, prepoffeffed with a paffion for Pompey, would not listen to Geminius. Pompey, in compaffion to his friend, yielded bim his mistress, which Flora took so much to heart, that she fell dangerously ill upon it; and in that fickness is fuppofed to write the following letter to Pompey.

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RE death these closing eyes for ever shade,

(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This last farewel to happiness and you.

My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper fwims before my fight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.
Think you behold me in this loft eftate,
And think yourself the author of my fate:

VOL. IV.

G

How

How vaft the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boaft of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,

This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,
(Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place
The facred temples of her gods to grace)

Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the roses dead.

Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They loft their likeness, when I lost thy heart.
Oh! that those hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus befpoke: "Say, my dear love!
"Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?

"In vain, for ever, fhall the Roman youth

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Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth?

"Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move? "Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love.

"Would Flora were not fair in fuch excefs,

"That I might fear, though not adore her lefs."

Fool that I was, I fought to eafe that grief, Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:

Experience

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Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, 'till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's felf could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unsuccessful pray'r;
To make thee fwear he'd not thy pity move;
Alas! fuch pity is no kin to love.

'Twas thou thyself, (ungrateful as thou art)
Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart:
You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true,
(Unnat'ral thought!) and labour'd to fubdue
The conftancy my foul maintain'd for you;
To other arms your mistress you condemn'd,
Too cool a lover, and too warm a friend.

How could'ft thou thus my lavish heart abuse,

To ask the only thing it could refuse?

Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I fay,
For 'tis my merit that I can't obey;

Yet this alledg'd against me as a fault,

Thy rage fomented, and my ruin wrought.

Juft gods! what tie, what conduct can prevail

O'er fickle man, when truth like mine can fail?
Urge not, to glofs thy crime, the name of friend,

We know how far those facred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove

How weak all paffions when oppos'd to love:

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Nor

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Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart
When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part;
'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art.

Such flights of honour might amuse the crowd,
But by a mistrefs ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the fenate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrify of state,

There words are virtue, and your trade deceit.
No riddle is thy change, nor hard t' explain,
Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man :
No longer then a fpecious tale pretend,
Nor plead fictitious merit to your friend:
By nature falfe, you follow'd her decree,
Nor gen'rous are to him, but false to me.

You fay you melted at Geminius' tears,
You fay you felt his agonizing cares:
Grofs artifice! that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you say you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival figh,
Yet bear unmov'd to fee your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! not thus can he

My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, see.
He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made,
And joins with me the giver to upbraid,

Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd.

He

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