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Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone ;
That dear inftru&ing Rage is now allay'd,
And no sharp Pen dares tell 'em how they've stray's
Bold as a God was ev'ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chastizing Itroke.
Mourn, mourn, yeYouths,whom Fortune has betray'd,
The last Reproacher of your Vice is dead.
Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cypress on,
The trueft Swain that e'er Ador'd youi's gone;
Think how he lov'd, and writ, and figh'd, and spoke,
Recall his Mein, his Fashion, and his Look.
By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize,
Soft as his voice, and charming as his Eyes.
Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow'rs,
Bedew'd with everlasting falling Show'rs ;
Fix your fair Eyes upon your vi&tim’d Slave,
Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave.
See where the noble Swain extended lics,
Too sad a Triumph of your victories ;
Adorn'd with all the Graces Heav'n e'er lent,
All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent
You've laid into his Early Monument,
Mourn, mourn, ye Beauties, your sad loss deplore,
The young, the charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whose Darts
Have lost their wonted Power of piercing Hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows Points inspir'd,
Those Lights that gave ye fire, are now retir’d,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mother's Doves ;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humblest Votary have lost
That ever your Divinities could boast;
Upon your Hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your Wings encompass round his Shrine
Instead of Flow’rs your broken Arrows ftrow,
And at his Feet lay the negle&ted Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The soft, the charming Strephon is no more. Large was his Fame, but short his glorious Race, Like young Lucretius liv'd and dy'd apace. So early Roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant Scents, then softly fall ; While all the scatter'd perfum'd Leaves declare, How lovely 'twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the Roman Empire known, When great Auguftus fill'd the peaceful Throne; Had he the noble wond'rous Poet seen, And known his Genius, and survey'd his Mein, (When Wits, and Heroes grac'd Divine abodes,) He had encreas'd the number of their Gods; The Royal Judge had Temples rear'd co's Name, And made him as Immortal as his Fame; In Love and Verse his Ovid he'ad out-done, And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.
Mourn, mourn, unhappy World, his Loss deplore, The great, the charming Strephon is no more.
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.
UST all my Life in fruitless Love be spent ?
Too well, my charming Dear, your Pow's you know,
And that which makes you play the Tyrant so.
For ever be the fatal Moment curft,
When fondly I confess’d my Passion first.
Oh! that my Flames had never been reveald,
Oh! that I now could keep the Fire conceal'do
Rehftless Love your Vi&ory secures,
And you alieady know my soul is yours.
It shows it self thro' all the forc'd disguise,
Breaks tho' my Lips, and trembles at my Eyes.
My Blood boils high, and rages to be blest,
My fluctuating Thoughts will never reft,
And know no calm, 'till harbour'd in your Breast.
Relent, at last, my cruel Fair relent,
And listen kindly to my juft Complaint.
Think on the Passion that's already past,
Think that the Passion will for ever last.
o see with what impatient Fires I burn,
And let your pitying Heart make some return.
My Flames are so fincere, my Love is such,
Some you should show,---you cannot show too much.
How blest should I in your Poffellion be?
How happy might you make your self in me?
No Mistress ever led so sweet a Life,
As you should in th' exploded thing, a Wife;
Years should roll round on Years, and Ages move
In Circles, Crown'd in everlasting Love.
Our mutual Joys, should like your Charms be new,
And all my buliness be to merit you.
Whap shall I say? Lines after Lines rehearse
Nought but the fondness in the former Verle.
On the dear Theme could for ever dwell;
For while I speak to you ----
My fault'ring Tongue can never speak farewel.
In your cold Breaft let Love an Entrance find,
And think, oh! quickly think, of growing kind.
My Flames no more with dull Indiff'rence crear,
Indiffrence is the Lover's hardeft Fate;
But if my Ruin is your fix'd Intent,
Urge it I beg you with a closer bent.
All glimm'rings of the fainteft Hope remove,
Say, that you do not, will not, cannot love.
Extreamly kind, or in Extreams severe,
Make sure my Bliss, or mad me with Despair.
Forbid me, banish me your charming sight,
2 Shut from my view those Eyes that shine so bright,
5 Shut your dear Image from my Dreams by Night.
Drive 'em somewhere, as far as Pole from Pote,
Let Winds between us rage, and Waters roll;
In distant Climes let me my Fate deplore,
In some lone Mand, on a desart Shore,
Where I may see your fatal Charms no more.
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS. I
Thought in Silence to suppress my Pain,
And never show my fond Concern again, What e'er you show'd; Indifference, or Disdain. But Love's great God the vain resolve withstands, At once inspires my Breast, and guides my Hands Aly Soul flows out in ev'ry Line I write, And rolls in Numbers in my own despight. Then let me in Poetick Fury break, For I can write the things I dare not speak. My Tongue still faulters as I move my Suit, And awful Love confounds and keeps me mute. Out of your Sight I can my Wrongs proclaim, And with unfetter'd Words confess my Flame. Why do you use me thus, ingrateful Fair ? Oppress'd with Doubts, yet bury'd 'bove Despair. Like wounded Fowl upon the Flood i lye, Floating on Wings, with which they us'd to fly, Who would find Ease, could they but drown and die. Such still has been your conqu’ring Beauty's spight, Cruel to wound, not kind to kill outright, Be merciful and save, or sink me quite. Toss not ’ewixt hope and fear my laboring Heart, Let us for ever join, or ever part. You know I love you, and you love me too, Which you have kindly let me know you do ; All this I know; oh! there will be the fall From Heav'n, to Hell;--... Should I be doom'd to lose you after all,
But be not by mistaken Notions led,
Nor think that Riches bless the Nuptial Bed.
This shall my only Consolation be,
No Fool of Fortune can your Merit see,
Nor have the Wit and Sense to love like me.
Oh! would that you had been but meanly Born,
Naked of Friends, abandon's and forlorn;
Left to the World ;---then should this Wih ensue,
Oh! would I had a World to offer you.
You know this is no false Poetick fight,
You know I feel more than the Muse can write,
Too well, my cruel'Dear, you keep the Field,
Too long hold out ; 'tis now high time to yielda
Consent at last, to mutual Joys resign,
And let the smallest share of Bliss be mine;
Unalterable Love your part fecures,
My Int'rest, Humour, all my Soul is yours.
I beg you, let me know my Doom at last,
Nought worse than Death can come, then all is past,
But think, and do not make a raih Decree;
O! think, you never were, nor e'er can be,
So truly lov'd, as you have been by me.
Hen God from Heav'n, for Disobedience, threw
The tow'ring Satan; he resolv'd to New
(By forming Thousands happy in his Place)
How much the Wretch deservd his Lord's Disgrace ;
For none, who faw his Bounty so excell,
Cou'd doubt his Justice, when his Angel fell.
The happy Creature, for this Bliss design’d,
Was Man; ungrateful to a God fo kind.
A mighty Chaos, which had long time lain-
Ia Heaps and Darkness, useless and in vain,
(Perhaps, the dread Remains of some old World;
For Crimes like ours, in just Confusion hurl'd:)