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“Virginibus puerisque canto."
On bis falling in Love with Neæra. Farewel that liberty our fathers gave,
In vain they gave, their fons receiv'd in vain: I saw Neæra, and her instant Nave, Though born a Briton, hugg'd the servile chain.
Her usage well repays my coward heart, Meanly she triumphs in her lover's shame, No healing joy relieves his constant smart, No smile of love rewards the loss of fame.
Oh, that to feel these killing pangs no more, On Scythian hills I lay a senseless stone, Was fix'd a rock amidst the watry roar, And in the vast Atlantic stood alone.
Adieu, ye muses, or my passion aid,
Why ihould I loiter by your idle spring?
My humble voice would move one only maid,
And the contemns the trifles which I sing.
I do not ask the lofty Epic strain,
Nor strive to paint the wonders of the sphere;
Ionly fing one cruel maid to gain,
Adieu, ye muses, if she will not hear.
No more in useless innocence I'll pine,
Since guilty presents win the greedy fair,
I'll tear it's honours from the broken shrine,
Bui dif, th've, Venus! will ticar.
Incriv'd ly thee, I lov'd a beauteous maid,
V ju berds on sordid gold her low desires :
Nor vorth nor paffion can her heart persuade,
But love muft act what avarice requires.
Unwise who first, the charm of nature loft,
With Tyrian purple foil'd the snowy sheep;
Unwiser Nill who feas and mountains croft,
To dig the rock, and search the pearly deep:
These cofly toys our silly fair surprise,
The shining follies cheat their feeble fight,
Their hearts fecure in trifles, love despise,
'Tis vain to court them, but more vain to write.
Why did the gods conceal the little mind,
And earthly thoughts beneath a heavenly face;
Forget the worth that dignifies mankind,
Yet smooth and polish fo each outward grace?
Hence all the blame that Love and Venus bear,
Hence pleasure short, and anguish ever long,
Hence tears and fighs, and hence the peevish fair,
The froward lover-hence this angry song
Unable to satisfy the covetous temper of Neæra, be intends to
make a Campaign, and try, if polible, to forget ber.
Adieu, ye walls, that guard my cruel fair,
No more I'll fit in rosy fetters bound,
My limbs have learnt the weight of arms to bear,
My rousing fpirits feel the trumpet's found.
Few are the maids that now on merit (mile,
On spoil and war is bent this iron age:
Yet pain and death attend on war and spoil,
Unfated vengeance and remorseless rage.
To purchase spoil, even love itself is fold,
Her lover's heart is least Neæra's care,
And I through war must seek detested gold,
Not for myself, but for my venal fair:
That while she bends beneath the weight of dress,
The stiffen'd robe may spoil her easy mien;
And art mistaken make her beauty less,
While still it hides fome graces better seen.
But if such toys can win her lovely smile,
Hers be the wealth of Tagus' golden sand,
Hers the bright gems that glow in India's foil,
Hers the black fons of Afric's sultry land.
To please her
For her be rifled ocean's pearly bed.
But where, alas! would idle fancy tend,
And soothe with dreams a youthful poet's head?
Let others, by the cold unloving maid,
In forc'd embraces act the tyrant's part,
While I their selfish luxury upbraid,
And fcorn the person where I doubt the heart.
Thus warm’d by pride, I think I love no more,
And hide in threats the weakness of my mind:
In vain,-though reason fly the hated door,
Yet Love, the coward Love, still lags behind.
He upbraids and threatens the avarice of Neara, and
refolves to quit her.
SHOULD Jove descend in floods of liquid ore,
And golden torrents stream from every part,
That craving bosom still would heave for more,
Not all the gods could satisfy thy heart:
But may tlıy folly which can thus disdain
My honeft love, the mighty wrong repay,
May midnight fire involve thy sordid gain,
And on the shining heaps of rapine prey:
May all the youths, like me, by love deceiv'd,
Not quench the ruin, but applaud the doom;
And, when thou dy'st, may not one heart be griev'd,
May not one tear bedew the lonely tomb.
But the deserving, tender, generous maid,
Whose only care is her poor lover's mind,
Though ruthless age may bid her beauty fade,
In every friend to love, a friend shall find:
And, when the lamp of life will burn no more,
When dead she seems as in a gentle sleep,
The pitying neighbour shall her lors deplore,
And round the bier assembled lovers weep:
With flowery garlands, each revolving year,
Shall strow the grave where truth and softness rests,
Then home returning, drop the pious tear,
And bid the turf lie easy on her breast.
To bis friend, written under the confinement of a long
indifpofition. WHILE calm
And loce in pleafing thought the summer-day,
Or tempt the wish of some unpractis'd maid,
Whose heart at once inclines and fears to stray:
The Sprightly vigour of my youth is fled,
Lonely and lick, on death is all my thought,