Imploy'd their Wiles and unavailing Care,
To pass the Fences, and furprize the Fair?
But most Vertumnus did his Love profess,
With greater Paffion, but with like Success;
To gain her Sight, a thousand Forms he wears,
And first a Reaper from the Field appears,
Sweating he walks, while Loads of golden Grain
O'ercharge the Shoulders of the feeming Swain.
Oft o'er his Back a crooked Scythe is laid,
And Wreaths of Hay his Sun-burnt Temples fhade;
Oft in his harden'd Hand a Goad he bears,
Like one who late unyok'd the fweating Steers.
Sometimes his Pruning-hook corrects the Vines,
And the loofe Straglers to their Ranks confines.
Now gath'ring what the bounteous Year allows,
le pulls ripe Apples from the bending Boughs.
Soldier now, he with his Sword appears;
Fisher next, his trembling Angle bears.
Each Shape he varies, and each Art he tries, On her bright Charms to feast his longing Eyes.
A Female Form at last Vertumnus wears, With all the Marks of rev'rend Age appears, His Temples thinly spread with filver Hairs: Prop'd on his Staff, and stooping as he goes, A painted Mitre fhades his furrow'd Brows. The God, in this decrepit Form array'd, o The Gardens enter'd, and the Fruits furvey'd, And happy You! (he thus addrefs'd the Maid) Whofe Charms as far all other Nymphs out-fhine, As other Gardens are excell'd by thine!
Then kiss'd the Fair; (his Kiffes warmer grow Than fuch as Women on their Sex beftów.) Then plac'd befide her on the flow'ry Ground, Beheld the Trees with Autumn's Bounty crown'd;
An Elm was near, to whofe Embraces led,
The curling Vine her swelling Clusters spread,
He view'd their twining Branches with Delight,
And prais'd the Beauty of the pleasing Sight.
Yet this tall Elm, but for his Vine (he faid) Had flood neglected and a barren Shade; And this fair Vine, but that her Arms furround Her marry'd Elm, had crept along the Ground. Ah beauteous Maid, let this Example move. Your Mind, averfe from all the Joys of Love. Deign to be lov'd, and ev'ry Heart fubdue!
[you? What Nymph cou'd e'er attract fuch Crowds as Not the whose Beauty urg'd the Centaur's Arms, Ulysses' Queen, nor Helen's fatal Charms.
Ev'n now, when filent Scorn is all they gain,
A thousand court you, tho' they court in vain,
A thousand Sylvans, Demigods, and Gods,
That haunt our Mountains and our Alban Woods.
But if you'll profper, mark what I advife,
Whom Age and long Experience render wife,
And one whose tender Care is far above
All that thefe Lovers ever felt of Love,
(Far more than e'er can by your felf be gueft)
Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest.
For his firm Faith I dare ingage my own,
Scarce to himfelf, himself is better known.
To distant Lands Vertumnus never roves;
Like you, contented with his Native Groves
Nor at first fight, like most, admires the Fair;
For you he lives; and you alone fhall fhare
His laft Affection, as his early Care.
Befides, he's lovely far above the rest,
With Youth Immortal and with Beauty bleft,
Add, that he varies ev'ry Shape with ease,
And tries all Forms, that may Pomona pleafe.
But what shou'd most excitę a mutual Flame,
Your Rural Cares, and Pleafures, are the fame.
To him your Orchards early Fruits are due,
(A pleasing Offering when 'tis made by you;)
He values thefe; but yet (alas) complains,
That ftill the best and dearest Gift remains.
Not the fair Fruit that on yon' Branches glows
With that ripe red th' Autumnal Sun bestows,
Nor taftful Herbs that in thefe Gardens rife,
Which the kind Soil with milky Sap fupplies;
You, only you, can move the God's Defire:"
Oh crown fo conftant and so pure a Fire!
Let soft Compaffion touch your gentle Mind;
Think, 'tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind!
So may no Froft, when early Buds appear,
Destroy the Promise of the youthful Year;
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