Didit thou imagine me fo weak of mind,
Because I murmur'd not, I ne'er repin'd,

But hugg'd my chain, and thought my jaylor kind?
That willingly thofe laws I e'er obey'd,

Which Pride invented, and Oppreffion made ?

And whilft felf-licens'd through the world you rove,
To quicken appetite by change in love;
Each paffion fated, and each wish poffefs'd,
That Luft can urge, or Fancy can suggest:
That I fhould mourn thy lofs with fond regret,
Weep the misfortune, and the wrong forget?

Could I believe that heav'n this beauty gave, (Thy tranfient pleasure, and thy lafting flave ;) Indu'd with reafon, only to fulfil

The harsh commands of thy capricious will?
No, Ufbeck, no, my foul difdain'd those laws;
And tho' I wanted pow'r t' affert my cause,
My right I knew; and ftill thofe pleasures fought,
Which Juftice warranted, and Nature taught:
On Custom's fenfeless precepts I refin'd,

I weigh'd what heav'n, I knew what man defign'd,
And form'd by her own rules my free-born mind.
Thus whilft this wretched body own'd thy pow'r,
Doom'd, unredrefs'd, its hard fhips to deplore;
My foul fubfervient to herself alone,
And Reason independent on her throne,
Contemn'd thy dictates, and obey'd their own.

}

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Yet

Yet thus far to my conduct thanks are due,
At least I condescended to seem true;
Endeavour'd ftill my fentiments to hide,
Indulg'd thy vanity, and footh'd thy pride.
Tho' this fubmiffion to a tyrant paid,
Whom not my duty, but my fears obey'd,
If rightly weigh'd, would more deferve thy blame,
Who call it Virtue, but prophane her name:
For to the world I should have own'd that love,
Which all impartial judges must approve :
You urg'd a right to tyrannize my heart,
Which he folliciting, affail'd by art,
Whilft I, impatient of the name of flave,
To force refus'd, what I to merit gave.
Oft, as thy flaves this wretched body led
To the detefted pleafures of thy bed;
In those soft moments, confecrate to joy,
Which extacy and transport should employ ;
Clasp'd in your arms, you wonder'd ftill to find
So cold my kiffes, fo compos'd my mind:
But had thy cheated eyes difcern'd aright,
You'd found averfion, where you fought delight.
Not that my foul incapable of love,

No charms could warm, no tenderness could move ;
For him, whofe love my every thought poffefs'd,

A fiercer paffion fill'd this conftant breast,
Than truth e'er felt, or falfhood e'er poffefs'd.

This ftile unufual to thy pride appears, For truth's a ftranger to the tyrant's ears; But what have I to manage or to dread?

ན

Nor threats alarm, nor infults hurt the dead :
No wrongs they feel, no miferies they find;
Cares are the legacies we leave behind:
In the calm grave no Ufbecks we deplore,
No tyrant husband, no oppreffive pow'r.
Alas! I faint-Death intercepts the reft:
The venom'd drug is bufy in my breast:
Each nerve's unftrung: a mift obfcures the day:
My fenfes, ftrength, and ev'n my hate decay:
Tho' rage a while the ebbing fpirits ftay'd,
'Tis paft-they fink beneath, the tranfient aid.
Take then, inhuman wretch! my laft farewel;
Pain be thy portion here, hereafter, hell:
And when our prophet fhall my fate decree,

Be any curfe my punishment, but thee.

EPILOGUE defign'd for SOPHONISBA,

B

And to have been spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.

By the Same.

EFORE you fign poor Sophonisba's doom,
In her behalf petitioner I come;

Not but our author knows, whate'er I fay,
That I could find objections to his play.
This double marriage for her country's good,

I told him never would be understood,

And that ye all would fay, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,
Her champion never had been in her-bed:

For could the ideot think a husband's name

Would make him quit his intereft, friends and fame;
That he would risque a kingdom for a wife,
And act dependent in a place for life?

Yet what ftern Cato fhall condemn the fair,

Whilft publick good the thunder'd in your ear,
If private intereft had a little share.

You know, the acted not against the laws
Of thofe old-fashioned times; that in her caufe

G 4

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Old

Old Syphax could no longer make a ftand,
And Maffiniffa woo'd her fword in hand.
But did not take the way to whet that sword?
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.

She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;

Have told him when Rome yielded she would yield,

And fent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to rouse him to the fight,
But like Penelope, when out of fight,
All she had done by day, undid by night.
Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half so kind.
What from a husband's hand could the expect
But ratfbane, or that common fate, neglect?
Perhaps fome languishing soft fair may say,
Poyson's so shocking—but confider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Maffiniffa's conduct blame,
He first his love confulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilft feemingly fhe play'd a patriot-part,
Was fecretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she ftrove fo well to hide,
Nor be compaffion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd,

An