Now drop a tear your forrows to affuage,
Anon reproach him, and pretend to rage.
Such proofs as these will all distrust remove,
And make him pity your exceffive love.
Scarce to himself will he forbear to cry,
"How can I let this poor fond creature die ?"
But chiefly, one, fuch fond behaviour fires,
Who courts his glass, and his own charms admires.
Proud of the homage to his merit done,
He'll think a goddess might with cafe be won.
Light wrongs, be fure, you fill with mildness bear,
Nor ftrait fly out, when you a rival fear.
Let not your paffion o'er your fense prevail,
Nor credit lightly every idle tale.
Let Procris' fate a fad example be
Of what effects attend credulity.
Near where his purple head Hymettus shows,
And flowering hills, a facred fountain flows;
With foft and verdant turf the foil is fpread,
And fweetly-fmelling fhrubs the ground o'erflade.
There rosemary and bay their odours join,
And with the fragrant myrtle's fcent combine.
There tamarifks with thick-leav'd box are found,
And cytiffus and garden-pines abound.
While through the boughs foft winds of Zephyr pafs,
Tremble the leaves, and tender tops of grafs.
Hither would Cephalus retreat to rest,
When tir'd with hunting, or with heat oppreft :
And thus to Air the panting youth would pray,
Come, gentle Aura, come, this heat allay.”
But fome tale-bearing too officious friend,
By chance o'er-heard him as he thus complain'd;
Who with the news to Procris quick repair'd,
Repeating word for word what she had heard.
Soon as the name of Aura reach'd her cars,
With jealoufy furpriz'd, and fainting fears,
Her rofy colour fled her lovely face,
And agonies, like death, fupply'd the place;
Pale fhe appear'd as are the falling leaves,
When firft the vine the winter's blaft receives.
Of ripen'd quinces, fuch the yellow hue,
Or, when unripe, we cornel-berries view.
Reviving from her fwoon, her robes fhe tore,,
Nor her own faultlefs face to wound forbore..
Now, all dishevel'd, to the wood the flies,
With Bacchanalian fury in her
eyes.
Thither arriv'd, fhe leaves below her friends;
And all alone the fhady hill afcends.
What folly, Procris, o'er thy mind prevail'd
What rage, thus fatally to lie conceal'd?
Whoe'er this Aura be, (fuch was thy thought
She now fhall in the very fact be caught.
Anon, thy heart repents its rafh defigns,
And now to go, and now to stay inclines:
Thus love with doubts perplexes ftill thy mind,.
And makes thee feek what thou must dread to find..
But ftill thy rival's name rings in thy ears,
And more fufpicious still the place appears:
But more than all, exceffive love deceives,
Which, all it fears, too eafily believes.
And, now, a chilnefs runs through every vein,
Soon as the faw where Cephalus had lain.
'Twas noon, when he again retir'd, to shun
The fcorching ardour of the mid-day fun;
With water first he fprinkled o'er his face,
Which glow'd with heat; then fought his ufual place.
Procris, with anxious but with filent care,
View'd him extended, with his bofom bare;
And heard him foon th' accuftom'd words repeat,
"Come, Zephyr; Aura, come; allay this heat :"
Soon as the found her error, from the word,
Her colour and her temper were restor❜d.
With joy fhe rofe to clafp him in her arms :
But Cephalus the rustling noife alarms;
Some beast he thinks he in the bushes hears,
And ftrait his arrows and his bow prepares.
"Hold! hold! anhappy youth !"---I call in vain,
With thy own hand thou haft thy Procris flain.
"Me, me (the cries) thou 'ft wounded with thy dart!
"But Cephalus was wont to wound this heart.
"Yet lighter on my afhes earth will lie,
"Since, though untimely, I unrival'd die : ·
"Come, close with thy dear hand my eyes in death,
"Jealous of Air, to Air I yield my breath."
Close to his heavy heart her cheek he laid,
And wafh'd, with ftreaming tears, the wound he made;
At length the fprings of life their currents leave,
And her laft gafp her husband's lips receive.
Now, to purfue our voyage we provide,
Till fafe to port our weary bark we guide.
You may expect, perhaps, I now should teach
What rules to treats and entertainments reach.
Come not the firft, invited to a feast;
Rather come last, as a more grateful guest.
For that, of which we fear to be depriv'd,
Meets with the fureft welcome when arriv'd.
Befides, complexions of a coarfer kind,
From candle-light no small advantage find.
During the time you eat, observe some grace,
Nor let your unwip'd hands befmear your face;
Nor yet too fqueamishly your meat avoid,
Left we fufpect you were in private cloy'd.
Of all extremes in either kind beware,
And still before your belly 's full forbear.
No glutton-nymph, however fair, can wound,
Though more than Helen fhe in charms abound.
I own, I think, of wine the moderate ufe
More fuits the fex, and fooner finds excufe;
It warms the blood, adds luftre to the eyes,
And wine and love have always been allies.
But carefully from all intemperance keep,
Nor drink till you fee double, lifp, or sleep.
For in fuch fleeps brutalities are done,
Which, though you loathe, you have no power to fhun.
And now th' inftructed nymph from table led,
Should next be taught how to behave in bed.
But modefty forbids: nor more, my Muse
With weary wings the labour'd flight pursues ;
Her purple fwans unyok'd the chariot leave,
And needful reft (their journey done) receive,
Thus, with impartial care, my art I show,
And equal arms on either fex bestow:
While men and maids, who by my rules improve,
Ovid muft own their mafter is in love.
IS ftrange, dear Temple, how it comes to pass,
That no one man is pleas'd with what he has.
So Horace fings---and fure, as ftrange is this:
That no one man 's difpleas'd with what he is.
The foolish, ugly, dull, impertinent,
Are with their perfons and their parts content.
Nor is that all, fo odd a thing is man,
He moft would be what leaft he fhould or can.
Hence, homely faces ftill are foremost seen,
And cross-fhap'd fops affect the niceft mien;
Cowards extol true courage to the skies,
And fools are ftill moft forward to advise;
Th' untrufted wretch to fecrecy pretends,
Whiffering his nothing round to all as friends.
Dull rogues affect the politicians part,
And learn to nod, and fmile, and fhrug with art;
Who nothing has to lofe, the war bewails;
And he who nothing pays, at taxes rails.
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