Convince even thofe, who seek for Caufe to blame; You toil'd with publick, more than private Aim: Since the dear Youth that did your Thoughts enflave, Lies calm and carelefs in the filent Grave.
Vaft is the Lofs that does your Souls opprefs, Yet firm, undaunted Courage makes it lefs; Here great Examples your Remarks deserve; Nor is there greater than the Queen you ferve: Reflect, when Death her fondest Hopes 'beguil'd, An only Son, and that an only Child; Tho' raging Paffions tore her tender Mind, She griev'd as Woman, but as Saint refign'd. While your Misfortunes kindly to repair, Heav'n leaves four blooming Nymphs, divinely Fair.
The Enquiry of VENUS after CUPID.
From the Greek of Mofchus.
ITH a loud Voice, thro' ev'ry Field and Wood,
The Queen of Love her wand'ring Son purfu'd.
Who-e'er (fays the) the Wanton Vagrant meets,
Loyt'ring about, or playing in the Streets,
Let him to me the joyful News convey,
And I'll with Kiffes all his Care repay.
But he who fhall restore the straggling Boy
To his glad Mother, fhall my felf enjoy;
Not only Kiffes to him will I give,
But he fhall thofe, and something more receive.
He's cafie to be known, him you may tell
From twenty others, he's remarkable:
His Body much resembles Fire, not White;
His Eyes are Flames, and piercing as the Light.
Words drop like Hony from his Lips, his Mind
Is wav'ring and unconftant, as the Wind.
A double dealing Knave, he's full of Tricks,
Andnever thinks one Word of what he speaks,
When vext, revengeful, and at Mischief glad,
Exafp'rating with Jeers the Wounds he made.
His Golden Hair in neateft Braids hang down
His Shoulders, but his Looks do feem to frown.
His Hands are small, yet pointed Darts they throw
So far, they wound the dusky King below.
Slave to no place, from this to that he flies,
And in all Hearts the lurking Villain lies.
Nor does his Pow'r on one Man vainly fall,
He blindly shoots his unfeen Shafts at all.
Both Heav'n and Earth his guided Arrows pierce,
And wound the Monarch of the Universe.
There's none but feel his mighty Pow'r, ev'n I
Have no Exemption from his Tyranny.
Phabus himself, who has fuch flore of Heat,
Whofe genial Warmth doth living things beget
If once my little Rover ftirs Defire,
Rages and burns with new contracted Fire.
Therefore whoe'er thou art that tak'ft the Boy,
Pray bind him faft, and all thy Skill employ
To bring him home; ne'er mind his Childish Tears,
(The Rogue is witty far above his Years)
But if he seem well-pleas'd, and fmile, beware;
His Smiles are Treafon, ev'ry Look's a Snare.
All his fair Words (like foul Infection) fhun,
And from his Gifts as from Deftruction run;
His burning Arrows, and envenom'd Breath,
And ev'ry thing he has, is ftampt with Death.
ODE in the SPRING, to the
Returning SUN.
Elcome, thou God of Light and Heat,
Thou tak'ft Delight in Indian Climes to stay,
And still the happy East
Is with thy longest Presence bleft;
Or else perhaps in Am'rous Play,
Beneath th' immortal Greens of Tempe's Grove,
While feebler Hands thy Chariot drove,
Haft loiter'd with fome Object of thy Love:
Or haft thou been in Mines below,
Where Pearls and Infant Diamonds grow?
(For they their Birth to thy kind influence owe.)
But fay where-ever thou hast been,
In all thy Walks thro' Earth or Skies,
Are any Wonders thou haft feen
So dazling bright as fair Francelia's Eyes?
Does Arabia's Spicy Coast
Half fo rich an Odour boast?
Or can Java's perfum'd Air
With her fragrant Breath compare?
But why fhou'd I, to speak of her,
Confine thee to the space of one revolving Year?
Thou thy glorious Race haft run,
Ever fince the World begun;
Thou faw'ft when Venus from the Billows rose, 'Twas thou firft kifs'd her Coral Mouth, And bleft her with Eternal Youth;
Did the young Goddess then more Charms difclofe
Had her Mein fo good a Grace?
Was fuch Sweetness in her Face?
She muit yield her Rival place;
Her mighty Rival can inspire
Higher Joys and fiercer Fire.
Francelia can alone difpence
Every Charm to ev'ry Sense;
Mufick lives upon her Tongue,
She's to our Ears the Sirens Song,
And when she strikes our ravish'd fight,
One polish'd Beam of thy own Mid-day Light.
Let other Nymphs with Art and Pains
Some poor unwary Heart betray,
While fhe, diffus'd like thy own Brightness, reigns,
And rules Mankind with universal Sway.
Confenting Nations in her Praise agree,
I join with them, but want her Mercy more;
For tho' alike we wouder and adore,
Yet none can love like me.
Nature, when first fhe took me from the Womb,
Thus fmiling deftin'd all my Days to come;
Scepters, the faid, I give to other Hands,
Thy Wreaths of Empire are Francelia's Bands;
My darling Son, and most distinguish'd Care,
For thee this double Portion I prepare,
Thou, glorious thou, Francelia's Chains fhalt wear.
And from this early moment to thy Grave
Be greater far than Kings, for thou'rt Francelia's Slave.
The Story of Ants chang'd to Men: From the Seventh Book of Ovid's Metamorphofes.
By Mr. STONESTREET,
A Dreadful Plague from angry funo came,
To fcourge the Land that bore her Rival's Name; Before her fatal Anger was reveal'd,
And teeming Malice lay as yet conceal'd;
All Remedies we try, all Med'cines use,
Which Nature cou'd fupply, or Art produce;
Th' unconquer'd Foe derides the vain Design,
And Art and Nature foil'd declare the Cause Divine.
At first we only felt th' oppreffive weight
Of gloomy Clouds, then teeming with our Fate,
And lab'ring to discharge unactive Heat:
But ere four Moons alternate Changes knew,
With deadly Blafts the fatal South-wind blew,
Infected all the Air, and poifon'd as it flew.
Our Fountains too a dire Infection yield,
For Crowds of Vipers creep along the Field,
And with polluted Gore, and baneful Steams,
Taint all the Lakes, and venom all the Streams
The young Disease with milder force began,
And rag'd on Birds and Beasts, excufing Man.
The lab'ring Oxen fall before the Plow,
Th' unhappy Plow-men ftare, and wonder how:
The tabid Sheep, with fickly Bleatings, pines;
Its Wool decreafing, as it Strength delines:
The Warlike Steed, by inward Foes compell'd,
Neglects his Honours, and deferts the Field,
Unnerv'd and languid feeks a bafe Retreat,
And at the Manger groans, but wish'd a nobler Fate:
The Stags forget their Speed, the Boars their Rage,
Nor can the Bears the ftronger Herds engage:
A gen'ral Faintnefs does invade 'em all,
And in the Woods and Fields promifcuously they fall..
The Air receives the Stench, and (ftrange to fay)
The rav'nous Birds and Beafts avoid the Prey:
Th' offenfive Bodies rot upon the Ground,
And spread the dire Contagion all around.
But now the Plague, grown to a larger size,
Riots on Man, and fcorns a meaner Prize.
Inteftine Heats begin the Civil War,
And Flushings firft the latent Flame declare,
And Breath infpir'd, which feem'd like fiery Air.
Their black dry Tongues are fwell'd, and scarce can
And fhort thick Sighs from panting Lungs are drove;
They gape for Air, with flatt'ring Hopes t'abate
Their raging Flames, but that augments their Heat;
No Bed, no Cov'ring can the Wretches bear,
But on the Ground, expos'd to open Air,
They lye, and hope to find a pleafing coolness there.
The fuff'ring Earth, with that Oppreffion curft,
Returns the Heat which they imparted first.
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