Bleft charmer fhe, till prying Fame

Incog. to Mifs's toilet came;

Where in the gally-pots she spy'd
Lilies and roses, that defy'd

The froft of age, with certain pickles
They call-Cofmetics for the freckles
Away fhe flew with what he wanted,
And told at Court that Chloe painted.
"Then who'd on Common Fame rely,
"Whose chief employment's to decry?
"A cogging, fickle, jilting female,
"As ever ply'd at fix in the Mall;
"The father of all fibs begat her
"On fome old newfman's fufty daughter."
O Captain! Taifez-vous---'twere hard
Her novels ne'er fhould have regard :
One proof I'll in her favour give,
Which none but you will disbelieve.
When Phoebus fent her to recite
The praises of the most polite,
Whose scenes have been, in every age,
The glories of the British stage;

Then the, to rigid truth confin'd,

Your name with lofty Shakespeare join'd;
And, fpeaking as the God directed,
The praife the gave was unfufpected.

THE

THE

S P E

L L.

WHENE'ER I wive, young Strephon cry'd,

powers that o'er the noose prefide !

Wit, beauty, wealth, and humour, give,

Or let me ftill a rover live:

But if all thefe no nymph can fhare,
And I'm predeftin'd to the fnare,

Let mine, ye powers! be doubly fair.

Thus pray'd the fwain in heat of blood,
Whilst Cupid at his elbow stood;

And twitching him, faid, Youth, be wife,
Afk not impoffibilities?

A faultlefs make, a manag'd wit,
Humour and fortune never met:

But if a beauty you'd obtain,

Court fome bright Phyllis of the brain;
The dear idea long enjoy,

Clean is the bliss, and will not cloy.
But trust me, youth, for I'm fincere,
And know the ladies to a hair:
Howe'er small poets whine upon it,
In madrigal, and fong, and fonnet,
Their beauty 's but a SPELL, to bring
A lover to th' inchanted ring;

Ere the fack poffet is digested,
Or half of Hymen's taper wasted,
The winning air, the wanton trip,
The radiant eye, the velvet lip,

From

From which you fragrant kiffes ftole,
And seem to fuck her springing foul.-
These, and the reft, you doted on,
Are naufeous or infipid grown;
The SPELL diffolves, the cloud is gone,
And Sachariffa turns to Joan.

E

L

E

G Y

UPON THE DEATH OF TIBULLUS.,

I

FROM OVI D.

F Memnon's fate, bewail'd with conftant dew,
Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew ;*
If her fon's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind

To fwell with tears the waves, with fighs the wind ;
If mighty Gods can mortals' forrow know,
And be the humble partners of our woe;
Now loose your treffes, penfive Elegy,
(Too well your office and your name agree)
Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame,
Lies now rich fuel on the trembling flame.
Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts,
Throws-by his empty quiver, breaks his darts;
Eafes his ufelefs bows from idle ftrings,

Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, reft,
And wounds with furious hands his penfive breast.

Thofe graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling fnow,
Forget their beauty, and in difcord lie,
Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.
Not more Æneas' lofs the boy did move;

Like paffions for them both, prove equal love.
Tibullus' death grieves the fair goddess more,
More fwells her eyes, than when the favage boar
Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore.

Poets large fouls heaven's noblest stamps do bear
(Poets, the watchful angels darling care) :
Yet death (blind archer) that no difference knows,
Without refpect his roving arrows throws.

Nor Phoebus, nor the Mufes' queen, could give
Their fon, their own prerogative, to live.

Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,

Tam'd wondering beafts, and Death's more cruel will.
Linus' fad ftrings on the dumb lute do lie,
In filence forc'd to let their master die.
Homer (the fpring to whom we poets owe
Our little all does in fweet numbers flow)
Remains immortal only in his fame,
His works alone furvive the envious flame.
In vain to Gods (if Gods there are) we pray,
And needless victims prodigally pay,
Worship their fleeping deities: yet Death
Scorns votaries, and stops the praying breath.
To hallow'd fhrines intruding Fate will come,
And drag you from the altar to the tomb.

7

Go,

1

Go, frantic poet, with delufions fed,

Think laurels guard your confecrated head,
Now the sweet mafter of your art is dead.
What can we hope ? fince that a narrow span
Can measure the remains of thee, great man!
The bold rash flame that durft approach fo nigh,
And fee Tibullus, and not trembling die,
Durft feize on temples, and their gods defy.
Fair Venus (fair ev'n in fuch forrows) ftands,
Clofing her heavy eyes with trembling hands:
Anon, in vain, officiously she tries

}

}

To quench the flame with rivers from her eyes.
His mother weeping does his eye-lids clofe,
And on his urn tears, her laft gift, bestows.
His fifter too, with hair difhevel'd, bears
Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.
With thofe, two fair, two mournful rivals come,
And add a greater triumph to his tomb :
Both hug his urn, both his lov'd afhes kifs,
And both contend which reap'd the greater blifs.
Thus Delia spoke (when fighs no more could laft)
Renewing by remembrance pleafures paft;
"When youth with vigour did for joy combine,
"I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine:

“I entertain'd his hot, his first desire,
"And kept alive, till age, his active fire.”
To her then Nemefis (when groans gave leave),
"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve:
"Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,
"About my neck his dying arms did twine;

U 4

"I fnatch'd