TO MY R A.
Nature, indulgent, provident, and kind,
In all things that excel fome ufe defign'd,
The radiant fun, of every heavenly light
The firft, did Myra not dispute that right,
Sends from above ten thousand bleffings down,
Nor is he fet fo high for show alone;
His beams reviving with aufpicious fire,
Freely we all enjoy what all admire.
The moon and stars, those faithful guides of night,
Are plac'd to help, not entertain, the fight.
Plants, fruits, and flowers, the fertile fields produce,
Not for vain ornament, but wholesome ufe;
Health they restore, and nourishment they give,
We fee with pleasure, but we taste to live.
Then think not, Myra, that thy form was meant
More to create defire, than to content :
Would the just gods fo many charms provide
Only to gratify a mortal's pride?
Would they have rais'd thee fo above thy fex
Only to play the tyrant, and to vex ?
'Tis impious pleasure to delight in harm,
And beauty fhould be kind, as well as charm.
IN those first times, when nymphs were rude and coy,
The gods difguis'd, laid ambushes for joy;
From Jove in feathers, harmless to the fight,
Læda, without a blush, accepts delight.
Myra, as chafte as Læda, and more fair,
Forgive an anxious lover's jealous care,
And O take heed, for, if fuch tales were true,
The gods may practise these designs on you;
Their heaven and all their brightness they will quit
For any form, that may to you admit.
Sec, how the wanton bird, at every glance,
Spreads his gay plumes, and feels an amorous trance;
Preft by that hand, he melts at every touch;
Preft by that hand, who would not melt as much ?
The Queen of Beauty fhall forfake the dove,
Henceforth the parrot be the bird of love.
INCE truth and conftancy are vain,
Since neither love, nor fenfe of pain,
Nor force of reason, can perfuade,
Then let example be obey'd.
In courts and cities, could you fee
How well the wanton fools agree,
Were all the curtains drawn, you'd find
Scarce one, perhaps, but who is kind.
Minerva, naked from above
With Venus, and the wife of Jove,
Expofing every beauty bare,
Defcended to the Trojan heir;
Yet this was the whom poets name
Goddess of Charity and Fame.
Penelope, her lord away,
Gave amorous audiences all the day;
Now round the bowl the fuitors fit,
With wine provoking mirth and wit:
Then down they take the stubborn bow;
Their ftrength, it feems, she needs must know:
twenty cheerful winters past,
immortaliz'd for chafte.
She's yet
Smile, Myra, then; reward my
And be as much fecure of fame :
By all thofe matchlefs beauties fir'd,
By my own matchless love inspir'd,
So will I fing, fuch wonders write,
That, when th' astonish'd world shall cite
A nymph of spotless worth and fame,
Myra fhall be th' immortal name,
WITH Myra's charms, and my extreme despair,
Long has my Muse amaz'd the reader's ear, My friends with pity heard the mournful found, And all enquir'd who gave the fatal wound; Th' aftonifh'd world beheld an endless flame, Ne'er to be quench'd, and knew not whence it came So fcatter'd fire from burning Ætna flies, Yet none can tell from whence thofe flames arife.
My timorous tongue, ftill trembling to confess,
Fearful to name, would fain have had her guefs;
Slight paffions with great eafe we can unfold,
Were my love lefs, my tongue had been more bold;
But who can live, and endless torments feel?
Compell'd by racks, the most refolv'd reveal
Thofe fecrets, that their prudence would conceal.
My weeping Mufe, oppreft with hopeless vows,
Flies to her feet, and thus for mercy bows.
Survey your felf, and then forgive your flave,
Think what a paffion fuch a form must have;
Who can, unmov'd, behold that heavenly face,
Thofe radiant eyes, and that refiftless grace ?
My vows to Myra all were meant to thee,
The praise, the love, the matchless conftancy.
'Twas thus of old, when all th' immortal dames
Were grac'd by poets, each with several names;
For Venus, Cytherea was invok'd,
Altars for Pallas, to Athena smok'd:
Such names were theirs; and thou the most divine,
Moft lov'd of heavenly beuties, Myra 's thine.
MYRA AT A REVIEW..
LET meaner beauties conquer fingly ftill,
But haughty Myra will by thousands kill,
Through armed ranks triumphantly she drives,
And with one glance commands ten thousand lives:
The trembling heroes nor resist nor fly,
But at the head of all their squadrons die.
calm and fo fercne but now,
What means this change on Myra's brow?
Her aguifh love now glows and burns,
Then chills and fhakes, and the cold fit returns.
Mock'd with deluding looks and smiles,
When on her pity I depend,
My aery hope the foon beguiles,
And laughs, to fee my torments never end,
So up the steepy hill with pain
The weighty ftone is roll'd in vain,
Which having touch'd the top, recoils,
And leaves the labourer to renew his toils.
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