h

Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half fo kind.
What from a husband's hand could fhe expect
But ratfbane, or that common fate, neglect?
Perhaps fome languifhing foft fair may say,
Poyfon's fo fhocking-but confider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Maffiniffa's conduct blame,
He first his love confulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilft seemingly fhe play'd a patriot-part,
Was fecretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault fhe ftrove fo well to hide,
Nor be compaffion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd.

An

**

r

An Imitation of the Eleventh Ode of the Firft

Book of HORACE..

By the Same..

FORBEAR, my dear Stephen, with a fruitless defire,

Into truths which are better conceal'd to enquire;

Perhaps many years are allow'd us by Fate,
Or next winter perhaps is the last of their date :
Let the credulous fools whom aftrologers cheat,
Exult or defpond, as they vary deceit ;

Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
All ills unforeseen we the easiest endure,

What avails to foresee, unless forefight could cure?
And from ills by their art how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be falfe, or thofe ills be decreed?
From reflection and hope little comfort we find,
To poffeffion alone let thy thoughts be confin'd;
To-day's all the treasure poor mortals can boast,
For to-morrow's not gained, and yesterday's loft;

Even now whilst I write, time steals on our youth,
And a moment's cut off from thy friendship and truth.
Then feize the fwift bleffing, enjoy the dear now,
And take, not expect, what hereafter 'll bestow.

W

A LOVE LETTER.

By the Same.

HAT fhall I fay to fix thy wav'ring mind,

To chafe thy doubts, and force thee to be kind? What weight of argument can turn the scale, If interceffion from a lover fail?

By what fhall I conjure thee to obey

This tender fummons, nor prolong thy stay?
If unabated in this conftant breast

That paffion burns which once thy vows profefs'd;
If abfence has not chill'd the languid flame,
Its ardour and its purity the fame;

Indulge those transports, and no more controul
The dictates of thy fond confenting foul;
By no vain fcruple be thy purpose fway'd,

And only Love implicitly obey'd:

Let

Let inclination this debate decide,

Nor be thy prudence, but thy heart thy guide:
But real prudence never can oppose

What Love fuggefts, and Gratitude avows:
The warm dear raptures which thy bofom move,
'Tis virtue to indulge, and wisdom to improve:
For think how few the joys allow'd by Fate,
How mix'd the cup, how fhort their longest date!
How onward still the ftream of pleasure flows!
That no reflux the rapid current knows!

Not ev❜n thy charms can bribe the ruthless hand
Of rigid Time, to ftay his ebbing fand;
Fair as thou art, that beauty muft decay;

The night of age fucceeds the brightest day:
That cheek where Nature's fweeteft garden blows,
Her whiteft lily, and her warmest rose;
Those eyes, thofe meaning minifters of Love,
Who, what thy lips can only utter, prove;
These must resign their luftre, thofe their bloom,
And find with meaner charms one common doom:
Pass but a few short years, this change must be;
Nor one lefs dreadful fhalt thou mourn in me:
For though no chance can alienate my flame,
While thine to feed the lamp, fhall burn the same,

Yet fhall the stream of years abate that fire,

And cold efteem fucceed to warm defire:

Then on thy breast enraptur'd shall I dwell,
Nor feel a joy beyond what I can tell.
Or fay, fhould fickness antedate that woe,
And intercept what Time would else allow ;

;

If pain should pall my taste to all thy charms,
Or Death himself should tear me from thy arms;
How would'st thou then regret with fruitless truth,
The precious fquander'd hours of health and youth?
Come then, my love, nor truft the future day,
Live whilft we can, be happy whilft we may:
For what is life unless its joys we prove?

And what is happiness but mutual love?
Our time is wealth no frugal hand can store,
All our poffeffion is the present hour,
And he who spares to use it, ever poor.
The golden now is all that we can boast;

And that (like fnow) at once is grafp'd and loft.
Hafte, wing thy paffage then, no more delay,
But to thefe eyes their fole delight convey.
Not thus I languifh'd for thy virgin charms,
When first surrender'd to these eager arms,

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