HEN Lesbia firft I faw fo heavenly fair,
With eyes
fo bright, and with that awful air,
I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire,
As bold as his who fnatch'd cœleftial fire.
But foon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke,
Forth from her coral lips fuch folly broke,
Like balm the trickling nonfenfe heal'd my wound,
And what her eyes enthrall'd her tongue unbound.
D ORI S.
DORIS, a nymph of riper age,
Has every grace and art,
A wife obferver to engage,
Or wound a heedlefs heart.
Of native blush, and rofy dye,
Time has her cheek bereft ;
Which makes the prudent nymph supply
With paint th' injurious theft.
Her fparkling eyes fhe ftill retains,
And teeth in good repair;
And her well-furnish'd front difdains
grace with borrow'd hair.
Of fize, fhe is nor fhort, nor tall,
And does to fat incline
No more, than what the French would call
Farther, her person to disclose
I leave---let it fuffice,
She has few faults, but what she knows,
And can with skill disguise.
She many lovers has refus'd,
With many more comply'd;
Which, like her cloaths, when little us'd,
She always lays afide.
who looks with great contempt
On each affected creature,
Whofe nicety would seem exempt
From appetites of nature, }
She thinks they want or health or fenfe,
Who want an inclination;
And therefore never takes offence
At him who pleads his paffion.
Whom the refufes, fhe treats ftill
With fo much fweet behaviour,
That her refufal, through her fklll,
Looks almoft like a favour.
Since the this foftness can exprefs
To those whom the rejects,
She must be very fond, you'll guefs,
Of fuch whom the affects:
But here our Doris far outgoes,
All that her fex have done; She no regard for custom knows, Which reafon bids her fhun.
By reafon her own reafon 's meant,
Or, if you please, her will:
For, when this laft is discontent,
The firft is ferv'd but ill.
Peculiar therefore is her way;
Whether by Nature taught,
I fhall not undertake to fay,
Or by Experience bought.
But who o'er night obtain'd her grace,
She can next day disown,
And ftare upon the strange man's face,
As one the ne'er had known.
So well she can the truth disguife,
Such artful wonder frame,
The lover or diftrufts his eyes,
Or thinks 'twas all a dream.
Some cenfure this as lewd and low,
Who are to bounty blind;
For to forget what we bestow
Befpeaks a noble mind.
Doris our thanks nor afks, nor needs:
For all her favours done
From her love flows, as light proceeds Spontaneous from the fun.
On one or other still her fires
Difplay their genial force; And the, like Sol, alone retires, To fhine elsewhere of course.
Sleep! thou flatterer of happy minds,
How foon a troubled breast thy falfehood finds!
Thou common friend, officious in thy aid,
Where no diftrefs is fhown, nor want betray'd:
But oh, how fwift, how fure thou art to fhun
The wretch, by fortune or by love undone !
Where are thy gentle dews, thy fofter
powers,
Which us'd to wait upon my midnight hours?
Why doft thou cease thy hovering wings to fpread,
With friendly fhade around my restless bed?
Can no complainings thy compaffion move?
Is thy antipathy so strong to love!
O no! thou art the profperous lover's friend,
And doft uncall'd his pleafing toils attend.
With equal kindness, and with rival charms,
Thy flumbers lull him in his fair-one's arms;
Or from her bofom he to thine retires,
Where footh'd with ease the panting youth refpires,
Till foft repofe reftore his drooping sense,
And Rapture is reliev'd by Indolence.
But oh, what fortune does the lover bear,
Forlorn by thee, and haunted by Despair!
From racking thoughts by no kind flumber freed,
But painful nights his joyless days fucceed.
But why, dull god, do I of thee complain?
Thou didst not caufe, nor canft thou ease my pain.
Forgive what my distracting grief has faid;
I own, unjustly I thy floth upbraid..
For oft I have thy proffer'd aid repell❜d,
And my
reluctant eyes from reft with-held;
Implor'd the Muse to break thy gentle chains,
And fung with Philomel my nightly strains.
With her I fing, but cease not with her song,
For more enduring woes my days prolong.
The morning lark to mine accords his note,
And tunes to my distress his warbling throat:
Each fetting and each rifing fun I mourn,
Wailing alike his abfence and return.
And all for thee---what had I well-nigh faid?
Let me not name thee, thou too-charming maid!
No---as the wing'd muficians of the grove,
Th' affociates of my melody and love,
In moving found alone relate their pain,
And not with voice articulate complain;
So fhall my Mufe my tuneful forrows fing,
And lofe in air her name from whom they spring.
O may no wakeful thoughts her mind moleft,
Soft be her flumbers, and fincere her rest:
For her, O Sleep, thy balmy fweets prepare;
The peace I lofe for her, to her transfer.
Hufh'd as the falling dews, whofe noifelefs fhowers
Imperle the folded leaves of evening flowers,
Steal on her brow: and as thofe dews attend,
Till warn'd by waking day to re-afcend,
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