PATCH.

Early this morn-(but I was ask'd to come)
I drank bohea in CALIA's dreffing-room:

Warm from her bed, to me alone within,
Her night-gown fasten'd with a single pin;
Her night-cloaths tumbled with refiftless grace,
And her bright hair play'd careless round her face;
Reaching the kettle made her gown unpin,

She wore no waistcoat, and her shift was thin,
SILLIANDER.

See TITIANA driving to the park!
Hark! let us follow, 'tis not yet too dark;
In her all beauties of the fpring are seen,
Her cheeks are rofy, and her mantle green.
PATCH.

See TINTORETTA to the opera goes!

Haste, or the crowd will not permit our bows;
In her the glory of the heav'ns we view,
Her eyes are star-like, and her mantle blue.

SILLIANDER.

What colour does in CALIA's ftockings shine?

Reveal that secret, and the prize is thine.

PATCH.

PATCH.

What are her garters? tell me if you can;

I'll freely own thee far the happier man.

Thus PATCH continued his heroic strain,

While SILLIANDER but contends in vain,
After a conqueft fo important gain'd,
Unrival'd PATCH in every ruelle reign'd.

WEDNESDAY.

The Tête à Tête.

DANCINDA.

O, fair DANCINDA, no; you ftrive in vain To calm my care, and mitigate my pain; "If all my fighs, my cares, can fail to move, "Ah! footh me not with fruitlefs vows of love." Thus STREPHON fpoke. DANCINDA thus reply'd: What must I do to gratify your pride? Too well you know (ungrateful as thou art) How much you triumph in this tender heart: What proof of love remains for me to grant ? Yet ftill you tease me with fome new complaint.

Oh!

Oh! would to heav'n!-but the fond wish is vain➡

Too

many favours had not made it plain!

But fuch a paffion breaks through all disguise,

Love reddens on my cheek, and wishes in my eyes. Is't not enough (inhuman and unkind!)

I own the secret conflict of my mind;

You cannot know what fecret pain I prove,
When I with burning blushes own I love.
You see my artless joy at your approach,
I figh, I faint, I tremble at your touch;
And in your abfence all the world I fhun;
I hate mankind, and curfe the chearing fun.
Still as I fly, ten thousand swains pursue;

Ten thousand swains I facrifice to you.

I fhew

you

all my

heart without disguise:
But thefe are tender proofs that you defpife
I fee too well what wishes you pursue;
You would not only conquer, but undo:
You, cruel victor, weary of your flame,
Would seek a cure in my eternal shame;
And not content my honour to fubdue,
Now strive to triumph o'er my virtue too.
Oh! Love, a god indeed to woman kind,
Whofe arrows burn me, and whofe fetters bind,

Avenge thy altars, vindicate thy fame,
And blast these traitors that profane thy name;

Who by pretending to thy facred fire,

Raise curfed trophies to impure defire.

Have

you forgot with what enfnaring art

You first feduc'd this fond uncautious heart?

Then as I fled, did you not kneeling cry, "Turn, cruel beauty; whither would you fly? "Why all these doubts? why this diftrustful fear? "No impious wishes fhall offend your ear: "Nor ever shall my boldest hopes prétend "Above the title of a tender friend; "Bleft, if my lovely goddess will permit

My humble vows, thus fighing at her feet. "The tyrant Love that in my bofom reigns, "The god himself submits to wear your chains. "You fhall direct his courfe, his ardour tame, "And check the fury of his wildest flame." Unpractis'd youth is easily deceiv'd; Sooth'd by fuch founds, I listen'd and believ'd; Now quite forgot that soft fubmiffive fear, You dare to ask what I must blush to hear. Could I forget the honour of my race, And meet your wishes, fearlefs of difgrace;

Could

Could paffion o'er my tender youth prevail,
And all my mother's pious maxims fail;

Yet to preserve your heart (which still must be,
Falfe as it is, for ever dear to me)

This fatal proof of love I would not give,

Which you'd contemn the moment you receive.
The wretched fhe, who yields to guilty joys,
A man may pity, but he must despise.
Your ardour ceas'd, I then should see you fhun
The wretched victim by your arts undone.

Yet if I could that cold indifference bear,

What more would strike me with the last despair,
With this reflection would my foul be torn,
To know I merited your cruel fcorn.

"Has love no pleasures free from guilt or fear? "Pleasures lefs fierce, more lafting, more fincere ? "Thus let us gently kifs and fondly gaze, "Love is a child, and like a child it plays.” O STREPHON, if you would continue juft, If love be fomething more than brutal lust, Forbear to afk what I must ftill deny,

This bitter pleasure, this deftructive joy,

So closely follow'd by the difmal train

Of cutting shame, and guilt's heart-piercing pain.

She