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He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, despairs, and dies.

Come to my arms, thou dear, deserving 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 sharpen thy despair.

Oh! 'tis illusion all! and idle rage! No second passion can this heart engage ; And shortly, Pompey, shall thy Flora prove, Death may diffolve, but nothing change her love.


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From FONTE NELLE. By the Same. When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction,

and retired into Africa, his son (who accompany'd him) fell into the bands of Hiempfal king of Numi ia, who képt bim prisoner One of the mistreses of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was so generous to contrive and give him his liberty, though by that means the lacrificed her love for ever. 'Twas after he had rejoin'd bis father, that she writ him the following letter.

Fall 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?

Tho' but with life my sorrows can have end,
(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I set you free,
Į mourn your absence, not your liberty.



Marius left Numidia's coast,
Each day I saw him ; scarce an hour was lost:
Now months and years must pafs, nay

life shall prove But one long absence from the man I love.

IV. Painful IV.

Painful reflection ! poyson to my mind!
Was it but mortal too, it would be kind :
But mad with grief I search 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 frantick cry,
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, tho' the horrid gloom augment my grief?
"Tis grateful ftill, for I disclaim relief.

That coz’ner hope intrudes not on my woe ;
One only interval my sorrows know ;
When dreams, the kind reversers of my pain,
Bring back my charming fugitive again,

Yet there's a grief surpassing all the rest ;
A jealous dæmon whispers in my breaft,
Marius was false; for liberty alone
The show of love the hypocrite put on.

IX. Then

IX. Then I refle&t (ah! would I could forget!) How much your thoughts on war and Rome were set. How little paflion did that conduct prove! Too strong thy reason, but too weak thy love.

Thy sword, '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.

XI. But what avail these thoughts ? fond wretch, give o'er ! Marius, or false, 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 fill;
That thought alone shall foften ev'ry ill ;
To tell my soul, his love, his truth was such,
All was his due, nor have I done too much.

Deceitful comfort! let me not persuade
My cred'lous heart its fondness was repaid ;
It makes my soul with double anguish mourn
Those joys, which never, never must return.

XIV. Per


Perhaps ev'n you what most I wish oppose,
And in the Roman all the lover lose :
I'm a Numidian, and your soul disdains
To bear thinglorious weight of foreign chains.


Can any

climate then so barb'rous prove,
To ftand excluded from the laws of Love?
His empire's universal, unconfind,
His proxy beauty, and his slaves mankind.

XVI. Nor am I a Numidian but by name, For I can int'rest for my love disclaim : My virtue shows what 'twas the gods defign'd, By chance on Africk'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 lost:
Yourself I loft: oh! grateful, then confess,
My tryal greater, tho' my glory less.

Yes, partial gods ! inflicters of my care !
Be witress what I felt, what grief, what fear!
When full of ftified woes the night he fled,
No sigh I dar'd to breathe, no tear to shed.

XIX. Whilf

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