From your command her motions she receiv'd;
And not for me, but you, the breath'd and liv'd.

But ever blest be Cytherea's shrine,
And fires eternal on her altars shine!
Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;
Since in thy kindness my desires are crown’d.
By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown,
Thy joys are center'd all in me alone ;
And sure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its

power.
Yet thus belov’d, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how,
Should from my soul by raging love be torn,
And far on swelling feas of rapture borne ;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh ;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.

Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause,
That with first sighs your panting bosom rose:
But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away ;
Pafs but fome fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep;
Shall only be of use to read or weep :
And on this forehead, where your verse has said,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,

Insulting

a

a

F4

a

Insulting age will trace his cruel way,
And leave sad marks of his destructive sway.
Mov'd by my charms, with them

your
love

may cease,
And as the fuel sinks, the flarne decrease:
Or angry heaven may quicker darts prepare,
And fickness strike what time a while would spare.
Then will my swain his glowing vows renew;
Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true;
When my own face deters me from my glass,
And Kneller only shews what Celia was?

Fantastic Fame may sound her wild alarms ; Your country, as you think, may want your arms, You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame, Whose smoke too long obscur'd your rising name; And quickly cold indifference will ensuc, When you Love's joys through Honour's optic view, Then Celia's loudest

prayer

will
prove

too weak,
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back;
When my lost lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accent of a woman's cry
Will pass unheard, will unregarded die ;
When the rough seaman's louder shouts prevail,
When fair Occasion shews the springing gale,
And Interest guides the helm, and Honour swells

the fail. Some wretched lines, from this neglected hand, May find my hero on the foreign strand, Warm with new fires, and pleas'd with new command ;

:

While she who wrote them, of all joy bereft;
To the rude censure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barbarous pastime lost,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast.

But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies
Sighs to my breast, and sorrow to my eyes.
Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)
May (corn his triumph, having bound his slave.
That tyrant-god, that restless conqueror,
May quit his pleasure, to alsert his power;
Forsake the provinces that bless his sway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.

Another Nymph with fatal power may rise,
To damp the sinking beams of Celia's eyes ;
With haughty pride may hear her charms confeft,
And scorn the ardent vows that I have blest.
You every night may figh for her in vain,
And rise each morning to some fresh disdain :
While Celia's softest look may cease to charm,
And her embraces want the power to warm :
While these fond arms, thus circling you, may proves
More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.

Just Gods! all other things their like produce;
The vine arises from her mother's juice :
When feeble plants or tender flowers decay,
*They to their feed their images convey :
Where the old myrtle her good influence sheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads :
And when the parent rose decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.

That product only which our passions bear
Eludes the planter's miserable care.
While blooming Love assures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poison taints the secret toot;
Soon fall the flowers of Joy, soon seeds of Hatred

shoot.
Say, shepherd, say, are these reflections true?
Or was it but the woman's fear that drew
This cruel scene, unjust to love and you?
Will you be only and for ever mine?
Shall neither time nor age our souls disjoin ?
From tliis dear bofom shall I ne'er be torn ?
Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn ?
And can you not for her you love do more
Than any youth for any nymph before ?

PROLOGUE spoken by LORD BUCKHURST,

in WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

at a representation of Mr. DeYDEN'S CLEOMENES,

at Christmas, 1695. PISH, lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek,

,
Then
young

Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can lord Buckhurst in poor English fay,
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,

I'd go to school fix hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they fee a critic frown.
Poor rogues, that smart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends :
Our
generous
scenes are

for
pure

love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're treated.
The candles and the cloaths ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgor.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of

you

snor'd whilft Cleomenes read;
Not that from this confeffion we would fue
Praise undeserv'd; we know ourselves and you :
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, nor beg applause,
For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we see some judgement well inclin’d,
To young desert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow ;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's fpirit.

An