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WICE had the moon perform'd her monthly
Since first the veil o'ercast Sabina's face.
Then dy'd the tender partner of her bed.
And lives Sabina when Fidelio's dead ?
Fidelio's dead, and yet Sabina lives.
But see the tribute of her tears she gives ;
Their absent Lord her rooms in sable mourn,
And all the day the glimmering tapers burn;
Stretch'd on the couch of state the pensive lies,
While oft the snowy cambric wipes her eyes.
Now enter'd Lucy; trusty Lucy knew
To roll a sleeve, or bear a Billet-doux ;
Her ready tongue, in secret service try'd,
With equal Auency spoke truth, or ly'd;
She well could Aufh or humble a gallant !
And serve at once as maid and confidant !
A letter from her faithful stays she took :
Sabina snatch'd it with an angry look,
And thus in hasty words her grief confeft,
While Lucy strove to footh her troubled breast.
What, ftill Myrtillo's hand! his flame I scorn,
Give back his passion with the seal untorn.
To break our soft repose has man a right,
And are we doom'd to read whate'er they write ?
Not all the sex my firm resolves shall move,
My life's a life of forrow, not of love.
May Lydia's wrinkles all my forehead trace,
And Celia's paleness ficken o'er my face,
May fops of mine, as Flavia's favours, boalt,
And Coquets triumph in my honour loft ;
May cards employ my nights, and never more
May these curft
behold a Matedore !
Break China, perish Shock, die Perroquet!
When I Fidelio's dearer love forget.
Fidelio's judgment scorn'd the foppish train,
His air was easy, and his dress was plain,
His words fincere, respect his presence drew,
And on his lips sweet conversation grew.
Where's wit, where's beauty, where is virtue Aled?
Alas! they're now no more ; Fidelio's dead !
Yet when he liv'd, he wanted ev'ry grace ;
That easy air was then an aukward pace :
Have not your sighs in whispers often said,
His dress was flovenly, his speech ill-bred ?
Have not I heard you, with a secret tear,
Call that sweet converse fullen and fevere?
Think not I come to take Myrtillo's part,
Let Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fhare his heart.
Let Chloe's love in every ear express
His graceful person and genteel address.
All well may judge what shaft has Daphne hit,
Who suffers silence to admire his wit.
His equipage and liv'ries Doris move,
But Chloe, Daphne, Doris fondly love.
Sooner shall Cits in fashions guide the Court,
And beaus upon the busy Change refort;
Sooner the nation shall from snuff be freed,
And fops' apartments fmoak with India's weed,
Sooner I'd wish and figh through nunn'ry grates,
Than recommend the flame Sabina hates.
Because some widows are in hafte subdu'd ;
Shall every fop upon our tears intrude?
Can I forget my lov'd Fidelio's tongue,
Soft as the warbling of Italian song?
Did not his rosy lips breathe forth perfume,
Fragrant as fteams from Tea's imperial bloom ?.
Yet once you thought that tongue a greater curse
Than squalls of children for an absent nurse.
Have you not fancy'd in his frequent kiss
Thi ungrateful leavings of a filthy Miss ?
Love, I thy pow'r defie ; no second Aame
Shall ever raze my dear Fidelio's name.
Fannia without a tear might lose her Lord,
Who ne'er enjoy'd his presence but at board.
And why should sorrow fit on Lesbia's face ?
Are there such comforts in a fot's embrace ?
No friend, no lover is to Lesbia dead,
For Lesoia long had known a sep’rate bed.
Gush forth, ye tears; wafte, wafte, ye fighs, my
My days, my nights were by Fidelio bleft!
You cannot sure forget how oft you said
His teazing fondness jealousy betray'd !
When at the play the neighb'ring box he took,
You thought you read suspicion in his look ;
When cards and counters flew around the board,
Have you not wish'd the absence of your Lord ?
His company was then a poor pretence,
To check the freedoms of a wife's expence !
But why should I Myrtillo's paffion blame,
Since Love's a fierce involuntary Aame :
Could he the fallies of his heart withstand,
Why should he not to Chloe give his hand ?
For Chloe's handsome, yet he flights her flame;
Last night the fainted at Sabina's name.
Why, Daphne, doft thou blame Sabina's charms ?
Sabina keeps no lover from thy arms.
At Crimp Myrtillo play'd, in kind regards
Doris dealt love; he only dealt the cards;
Doris was touch'd with spleen; her fan he rent,
Flew from the table, and to tears gave vent.
Why, Doris, dost thou curse Sabina's eyes ?
To her Myrtilla is a vulgar prize.
Yet say, I lov'd; how loud would cenfure rail !
So soon to quit the duties of the veil!
No, sooner Plays and Op'ras I'd forswear,
And change thesë China jars for Tunbridge ware ;
Or trust my mother as a confidant,
Or fix a friendship with my maiden aunt?
Than tillto-morrow throw my weeds away.
Yet let me see him, if he comes to-day!