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For her, inconftant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.
But left harsh care the lover's

peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let reason teach what passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by prudence should be ty'd.
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,

fortune on their union frown:
Soon will the flatt’ring dream of bliss be o'er,'
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain,
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief;
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.

Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise, or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandoned proftitutes are they,
Who not to love, but av’rice fall a prey :
Nor aught avails the specious name of Wife;
A maid so wedded, is a Whore for Life.

Ev'n in the happiest choice, where fav’ring heay'n
Has equal love, and easy fortune giv'n,
Think not, the husband gain’d, that all is done ;
The prize of happiness muft ftill be won;


And oft, the careless find it to their cost,
The lover in the husband may be loft ;
The graces might alone his heart allure ;
They and the virtues meeting must secure.
Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress
Of care for him, and anxious tenderness.
From kind concern about his weal or woe,
Let each domestic duty seem to flow;
Endearing every common act of life,
The mistress still shall charm him in the wife!
And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on,
Before his eye perceives one beauty gone :
Ev'n o'er your cold, and ever-sacred urn,
His constant flame fall unextinguish'd burn.
'Tis thus, Belinda, I your charms improve,
And form your heart to all the arts of love;
The talk were harder to secure my own
Against the pow'r of those already known;
For well


twift the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind, Skill'd ev'ry soft attraction to employ, Each flatt'ring hope, and each alluring joy; I own your genius, and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.



T A L E.


I Bent midnight Fairies dau're 'a the maze,

N Britain's isle and Arthur's days,
When midnight Fairies daunc'd the maze,

Liv'd Edwin of the green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,

Tho' badly shap'd he been.

His mountain back mote well be said
To measure height against his head,

And lift itself above;
Yet spite of all that nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dar'd to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

Cou'd ladies look within ;
But one Sir Topaz dress’d with art,
And, if a shape cou'd win a heart,

He had a fhape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my song,
With Nighted passion pac'd along

All in the moony light;
>Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort

To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross’d, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

That reach'd the neighbour-town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Refolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,

And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,

A trembling, rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once an hundred tapers light

On all the walls around.

Now sounding tongues affail his ear,
Now founding feet approachen near,

And now the sounds increase :
And from the corner where he lay
He sees a train profusely gay

Come prankling o'er the place.


But (trust me Gentles !) never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,

Or half so rich before :
The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The fea the pearl, the sky the plumes,

The town its filken store.

Now whilt he gaz'd, a gallant dreft,
In flaunting robes above the reft,

With awful accent cry'd ;
What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose fighs infect the balmy wind,

Has here presum'd to hide ?

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul
No fears of magic art controul,

Advanc'd in open fight;
“ Nor have I cause of dreed, he said,
“ Who view by no presumption led

Your revels of the night.

'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, “ Which made my steps unweeting rove,

“ Amid the nightly dew.” 'Tis well the gallant cries again, We fairies never injure men

Who dare to tell us true.

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