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 wou'd 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 laft word what agonies I feel!
I faint-I die-remember I was true-
'Tis all I afk-eternally-adieu!-

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

E

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 laft 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 :

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

This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,

(Whofe

(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 rofes dead.

Soon fhall fome hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my resemblance they impart,
They loft their likeness, when I loft thy heart.

Oh! that thofe hours could take their turn again,
When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain,
His Flora thus bespoke: "Say, my dear love!
"Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove?
"In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth
"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 excess,
"That I might fear, tho' not adore her lefs."
Fool that I was, I fought to eafe that grief,
Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief:
Experience taught the cruel truth too late,
I never dreaded, till I found my fate.
'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's self could hear,
Unmov'd, his rival's unfuccessful 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 subdue
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 afk the only thing it could refuse?

Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say,
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 tye, what condu&t 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 sacred laws extend;
Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove

How weak all paffions when oppos'd to love:
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 mistress ne'er can be allow'd;
Keep for the fenate, and the grave debate,
That infamous hypocrify of ftate:

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

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No

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 carcs:
Grofs artifice, that this from him could move,
And not from Flora, whom you fay you love:
You could not bear to hear your rival figh,
Yet bear un mov'd to fee your mistress die.
Inhuman hypocrite! not thus can he
My wrongs, and my diftrefs, obdurate, fee.
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 loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refufe:
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind embassador 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 perfon, 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;

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He