My life confuming with eternal grief,
From herbs and spells I feek a vain relief;
To every wife magician I repair,
In vain! for ftill I love, and I despair.
Circe, Medea, and the Sibyl books,
Contain not half th' enchantment of her looks.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
As melted gold preferves its weight the fame,
So burnt my love, nor wafted in the flame.
And now, unable to support the ftrife,
A glimmering hope recals her parting life;
My rival dying, I no longer grieve,
Since I may ask, and she with honour give.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Witness ye hours, with what unweary'd care,
From place to place I still pursued the fair.
Nor was occafion to reveal my flames
Slow to my fuccour, for it fwiftly came :
It came, it came, that moment of delight,
O gods! And how I trembled at her fight!
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret smart.
Difmay'd and motionlefs, confus'd, amaz'd,
Trembling I ftood, and terrify'd I gaz'd ;
My faltering tongue in vain for utterance try'd,
Faint was my voice, my thoughts abortive dy'd,
Or in weak founds and broken accents came
Imperfect, as difcourfes in a dream,
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
Soon the divin'd what this confufion meant,
And guess'd with ease the cause of my complaint:
My tongue emboldening as her looks were mild,
At length I told my griefs---And still she smil❜d.
O Syren, Syren, fair deluder, fay
Why should you tempt to trust, and then betray?
So faithless now, why gave you hopes before?
Alas! you should have been less kind, or more.
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its fecret fmart.
Secure of innocence, I feek to know
From whence this change, and my misfortunes grow ; Rumour is loud, and every voice proclaims
Her violated faith, and conscious flames.
Can this be true? Ah flattering mischief, speak,
Can you make vows, and in a moment break?
And can the space so very narrow be
Betwixt a woman's oath, and perjury?
O Jealoufy! All other ills at first
My love effay'd, but thou art fure the worst!
Tell, for you know the burthen of my heart,
Its killing anguish, and its secret smart.
Ungrtateful Myra! urge me thus no more,
Nor think me tame, that once fo long I bore:
Though now by philtres I'd avert thy change,
The philtres failing, poifon fhall revenge :
Already ftands prepar'd the deadly draught,
Of an Affyrian was the fecret bought :
For whom that draught? Ah fceble rage and vain !
With how fecure a brow fhe mocks my pain?
Thy heart, fond lover, does thy threats belie,
Canft thou hurt her, for whom thou yet would'st die!
Nor durft fhe thus thy just resentment brave,
But that she knows how much thy foul 's her flave.
But fee! Aurora rising with the sun
Diffolves my charm, and frees th' enchanted moon,
My fpells no longer bind at fight of day,
And young Endymion calls his love away.
Love's the reward of all, on earth, in heaven,
And for a plague, to me alone was given.
Evils we cannot fhun we must endure,
Death and a broken heart 's a ready cure.
Cynthia farewel, go reft thy weary light,
I must for ever wake---We 'll meet again at night.
N lonely walks, distracted by despair,
Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, fwelling with fighs the wind,
Through paths untrodden day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my fuccefslefs love.
Who most defire to live untimely fall,
But when we beg to die Death flies our call.
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd breaft
In midst of joy, where Venus wont to rest;
The fate that cruel feem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness to me.
When will my forrows end? In vain, in vain
I call to heaven, and tell the gods my pain;
The gods, averfe, like Myra, to my prayer,
Confent to doom whom the denies to spare.
Why do I feek for foreign aids, when I
Bear ready by my fide the power to die?
Be keen, my fword, and ferve thy mafter well,
Heal wounds with wounds, and love with death repel-
Strait up I rofe, and to my aching breast,
My bofom bare, the pointed blade I preft,
When lo! aftonifh'd! an unusual light.
Pierc'd the thick fhade, and all around grew bright;
My dazzled eyes a radiant form behold,
Splendid with light like beams of burning gold;
Eternal rays his fhining temples grace *,~
Eternal youth fat smiling on his face;
Trembling I liften, proftrate on the ground,
His breath perfumes the grove, and mufic's in the found.
Ceafe, lover, ceafe thy tender heart to vex
In fruitless plaints of an ungrateful sex :
In fate's eternal volumes it is writ
That women ever fhall be foes to wit:
With proper arts their fickly minds command,
And please them with the things they understand;
With noify fopperies their hearts affail,
Renounce all fenfe; how should thy fongs prevail,
When I, the god of wit, fo oft' could fail?
Remember me; and in my ftory find
How vainly merit pleads to womankind.
I by whom all things shine, who tune the spheres,
Create the day, and gild the night with stars,
Whofe youth and beauty from all ages past
Sprang with the world, and with the world fhall last:
How oft' with fruitlefs tears have I implor'd
Ungrateful nymphs! and, though a god, ador'd!
When could my wit, my beauty, or my youth,
Move one hard heart? or mov'd, fecure its truth?
Here a proud nymph with painful steps I chace,
The winds out-flying in our nimble race;
Stay, Daphne, stay---in vain, in vain I try
To stop her speed, redoubling at my cry;
O'er craggy rocks and rugged hills the climbs,
And tears on pointed flints her tender limbs;
But caught at length, just as my arms I fold,
Turn'd to a tree, fhe yet efcapes my hold.
In my next love a different fate I find,
Ah! which is worse, the falfe or the unkind ?
Forgetting Daphne, I Coronis chofe,
A kinder nymph---too kind for my repose.
The joys I give but more inflame her breast,
She keeps a private drudge to quench the reft;
How, and with whom, the very birds proclaim
Her black pollution, and reveal my shame.
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