« ПредишнаНапред »
CALLED INCONSTAN T.
A! ha! you think you've kill'd my fame,
But, when you call us fo,
It can at best but for a metaphor go.
Can you the fhore inconftant call,
Which ftill, as waves pafs by, embraces all;
Or can you fault with pilots find
For changing courfe, yet never blame the wind?
Since, drunk with vanity, you fell,
The things turn round to you that stedfaft dwell
And you yourself, who from us takey
So the fame error feizes you,
As men in motion think the trees move too.
O, let the fatted calf be kill'd ;.
With noble refolutions fill'd,
And fill'd with forrow for the past :
No more will burn with love or wine;
Welcome, ah! welcome, my poor heart!
Dear wanderer! fince from me you fled,
Haft thou not found each woman's breaft
(The lands where thou haft travelled) Either by favages poffeft,
Or wild and uninhabited ?
What joy could'st take, or what repose,
Luft, the fcorching dog-ftar, here
When once or twice you chanc'd to view
Like China, it admitted you
But to the frontier-part.
From Paradife fhut for evermore,
What good is 't that an angel kept the door?
Well fare the pride, and the difdain,
I ne'er had seen this heart again,
If any fair-one had been kind:
My dove, but once let loose, I doubt
Would ne'er return, had not the flood been out.
THE HEART FLED AGAIN.
ALSE, foolish heart! didst thou not say,
Behold! again 'tis fled away,
Fled as far from me as before.
I ftrove to bring it back again;
The wind bore him and her loft words away..
The doleful Ariadne fo,
On the wide shore forfaken stood:
"Falfe Thefeus, whither doft thou go?" Afar falfe Thefeus cut the flood.
But Bacchus came to her relief;
Bacchus himself 's too weak to eafe my grief.
Ah! fenfelefs heart, to take no rest,
Thus to be froz'n in every breast!
And to be fcorch'd in every eye!
Wandering about like wretched Cain,
Well, fince thou wilt not here remain,
I'll e'en to live without thee try;
I can more eafily live, I know,
RI'm a very dunce, or woman-kind
I can no fenfe nor no contexture find,
By customs and traditions they live,
Yet they continue obftinate:
> Preach we, Love's prophets, what we will, Like Jews, they keep their old law still,
Before their mothers' Gods they fondly fall,
Which they, as we do them, adore.
But then, like men both covetous and devout,
At their own charge to furnish it
To these expensive Deities
The hearts of men they facrifice.
OME dull philofopher-when he hears me fay
Nor has of late inform'd my body here,
That neither is, nor will be, I,
As a form fervient and affisting there
cry, "Abfurd!" and ask me how I live;
A curfe on all your vain philosophies,