And fince their lips, fo knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd youth might foon believe,
And fince their tears in falfe fubmiffion dres
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast,
O! shut thine eyes to fuch deceitful woe;
Caught by the beauty of thy outward fhow,
Like me they do not love, whate'er they seem,
-with paffion founded on esteem.
Answer to the foregoing Lines.
00 well these lines that fatal truth declare, Which long I've known, yet now I blud to hear.
But fay, what hopes thy fond ill-fated love,
What can it hope, tho' mutual it shou'd prove?
This little form is fair in vain for you,
In vain for me thy honeft heart is true;
For wou'd'ft thou fix dishonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame;
Or gild my ruin with the name of wife,
And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life:
Cou'd'ft thou fubmit to wear the marriage chain,
(Too fure a cure for all thy prefent pain)
No faffron robe for us the godhead wears,
His torch inverted, and his face in tears.
Tho' ev'ry fofter wish were amply crown'd,
Love foon wou'd cease to fmile where Fortune frown'd;
Then wou'd thy foul my fond confent deplore,
And blame what it follicited before;
Thy own exhaufted would reproach my truth,
And fay I had undone thy blinded youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents, and obfcur'd thy fame;
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That wou'd in fenates or in courts have shin'd.
Gloriously active in thy country's caufe,
Afferting freedom, and enacting laws.
Or fay, at beft, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd, and filently repin'd;
The jealous dæmons in my own fond breast
Wou'd all thefe thoughts inceffantly fuggeft,
And all that fenfe muft feel, tho' pity had fuppreft.
Yet added grief my apprehenfion fills
(If there can be addition to thofe ills)
When they shall cry, whofe harsh reproof I dread,
" "Twas thy own deed, thy folly on thy head!"
Age knows not to allow for thoughtless youth,
Nor pities tenderness, nor honours truth;
Holds it romantic to confess a heart,
And fay thofe virgins act a wiser part
Who hofpitals and bedlams wou'd explore
To find the rich, and only dread the poor;
Who legal prostitutes, for int'reft sake,
Clodios and Timons to their bosoms take,
And, if avenging heav'n permit increase,
People the world with folly and disease.
Those, titles, deeds, and rent-rolls only wed,
Whilft the best bidder mounts the venal bed,
And the grave aunt and formal fire approve
This nuptial fale, this auction of their love.
But if regard to worth or fense be shown,
That poor degenerate child her friends difown,
Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice
From her great name's hereditary vice.
These scenes my prudence ushers to my mind,
Of all the ftorms and quickfands I must find,
If I embark upon this fummer fea,
Where Flatt'ry fmooths, and Pleasure gilds the way.
Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dang'rous flame
Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name,
I might upon that score thy heart receive,
And with that guiltless name my own deceive;
That commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent lover in the friend;
Of ignorance I want the poor excufe,
And know, I both muft take, or both refuse.
Hear then the fafe, the firm refolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forfake.
Whilft other maids a fhameless path purfue,
Neither to int'reft, nor to honour true,
And proud to fwell the triumph of their eyes,
Exult in love from lovers they defpife;
Their maxims all revers'd I mean to prove,
And tho' I like the lover, quit the love.
*<*}*{*}*{*}*{*}*{*}*{*}*<*}*
EPISTLES in the Manner of OVID.
INCE language never can describe my pain,
How can I hope to move when I complain?
But fuch is woman's frenzy in distress,
We love to plead, tho' hopeless of redress.
Perhaps, affecting ignorance, thou'lt say,
From whence these lines? whose message to convey?
Mock not my grief with that feign'd cold demand,
Too well you know the hapless writer's hand:
But if you force me to avow my shame,
Behold it prefac'd with Monimia's name.
Loft to the world, abandon'd and forlorn,
Expos'd to infamy, reproach, and scorn,
To mirth and comfort loft, and all for you,
Yet loft, perhaps, to your remembrance too,
How hard my lot! what refuge can I try,
Weary of life, and yet afraid to die!
Of hope, the wretch's laft refort, bereft,
By friends, by kindred, by my lover, left.
Oh! frail dependence of confiding fools!
On lovers oaths, or friendship's facred rules,
How weak in modern hearts, too late I find,
Monimia's faln, and Philocles unkind!
To these reflections, each flow wearing day,
And each revolving night a conftant prey,
Think what I fuffer, nor ungentle hear
What madness dictates in my fond despair;
Grudge not this fhort relief, (too fast it flies)
Nor chide that weakness I myself despise.
One moment fure may be at leaft her due,
Who facrific'd her all of life for you.
Without a frown this farewel then receive,
For, 'tis the laft my hapless love fhall give;
Nor this I wou'd, if reafon cou'd command,
But what reftriction reins a lover's hand?
Nor prudence, fhame, nor pride, nor int'reft sways,
The hand implicitly the heart obeys:
Too well this maxim has my conduct shewn,
Too well that conduct to the world is known.
Oft have I writ, and often to the flame
Condemn'd this after-witnefs of my fhame;
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