What though young Sylvia love the park's cool fhade,
And wander in the dufk the fecret glade?
Masqu'd and alone (by chance) the met her fpark; That innocence is weak which fhuns the dark.
But Laura for her flame has no pretence;
Her footman is a footman too in fenfe.
All prudes I hate; and thofe are rightly curst
With scandal 's double load, who censure first.
And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter ty'd?
Who fuch a foot and fuch a leg would hide;
When crook-knee'd Phyllis can expofe to view
Her gold-clock'd stocking, and her tawdry fhoe?
Devotion center in the face,
If cenfuring others fhew intrinfic grace,
If guilt to public freedoms be confin❜d,
Prudes (all muft own) are of the holy kind!
Sylvia difdains referve, and flies constraint:
She neither is, nor would be thought, a Saint..
Love is a trivial paffion, Laura cries:
May I be bleft with friendship's stricter ties !"
To fuch a breaft all fecrets we commend;
Sure the whole Drawing-room is Laura's friend.
At marriage Sylvia rails; who men would truft?
Yet husbands' jealoufies are fometimes juft.
Her favours Sylvia shares among mankind :
Such generous love fhould never be confin'd.
As thus alternate chat employ'd their tongue,
With thundering raps the brazen knocker rung.
Laura and Sylvia came; the nymphs arise;
"This unexpected vifit," Doris cries,
"Is doubly kind!" Melanthe Laura led:
"Since I was last so bleft, my dear," the faid,
"Sure 'tis an age!" They fate; the hour was fet;
And all again that night at Ombre met.
TWICE had the moon perform'd her monthly race,
Since firft the veil o'ercaft Sabina's face.
Then died the tender partner of her bed.
And lives Sabina when Fidelio 's dead?
Fidelio's dead, and yet Sabina lives.
But fee the tribute of her tears he gives :
Their abfent Lord her rooms in fable mourn,
And all the day the glimmering tapers burn;
Stretch'd, on the couch of ftate the penfive lies,
While oft' the fnowy cambric wipes her eyes.
Now enter'd Lucy: trusty Lucy knew
To roll a fleeve, or bear a billet-doux ;
Her ready tongue, in fecret fervice try'd,
With equal fluency fpoke truth or ly'd ;
She well could flush or humble a gallant,
And ferve
at once as maid and confidant!
A letter from her faithful stays she took :
Sabina fnatch'd it with an angry look,
And thus in hafty words her grief confest;
While Lucy ftrove to footh her troubled breaft.
What, ftill Myrtillo's hand! his flame I fcorn;
Give back his paffion with the feal untorn.
To break our foft repofe has man a right?
And are we doom'd to read whate’er they write ?
Not all the fex my firm refolves fhall move;
My life's a life of sorrow, not of love.
May Lydia's wrinkles all my forehead trace,
And Celia's palenefs ficken o'er my
face;
May fops of mine, as Flavia's favours, boast,
And coquettes triumph in my honour lost;
May cards employ my nights, and never more
May these curft eyes behold a matadore;
Break China, perifh Shock, die Perroquet;
When I Fidelio's dearer love forget!
Fidelio's judgement fcorn'd the foppish train;
His air was easy, and his dress was plain ;
His words fincere, refpect his presence drew,
And on his lips fweet conversation grew.
Where's wit, where 's beauty, where is virtue fled ?
Alas! they're now no more; Fidelio's dead!
Yet, when he liv'd, he wanted every grace;
That eafy air was then an aukward pace :
Have not your fighs in whispers often said,
His dress was flovenly, his speech ill-bred ?
Have not I heard you, with a fecret tear,
Call that fweet converfe fullen and fevere?
Think not I come to take Myrtillo's part;
Let Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fhare his heart;
Let Chloe's love in every ear exprefs
His graceful perfon and genteel addrefs.
All well may judge what shaft has Daphne hit,
Who fuffers filence, to admire his wit.
His equipage and liveries Doris move;
But Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fondly love.
Sooner fhall Cits in fashions guide the Court,
And beaux upon the bufy Change refort;
Sooner the nation fhall from fnuff be freed,
And fops' apartments fmoak with India's weed;
Sooner I'd with and figh through nunnery grates;
Than recommend the flame Sabina hates.
Because fome widows are in hafte fubdued;
Shall every fop upon our tears intrude?
Can I forget my lov'd Fidelio's tongue,
Soft as the warbling of Italian fong?
Did not his rofy lips breathe forth perfume,
Fragrant as fteams from tea's imperial bloom?
Yet once you thought that tongue a greater curfe
Than fqualls of children for an absent nurse.
Have you not fancy'd, in his frequent kifs,
Th' ungrateful leavings of a filthy Mifs?
Love, I thy power defy; no fecond flame
Shall ever raze my dear Fidelio 's name.
Fannia without a tear might lose her Lord,
Who ne'er enjoy'd his prefence but at board.
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