Yet thinking of each happy hour,
Which I with thee have spent,
So robs my rage of all its power,
That I almost relent.
But pride will never let me bow,
No more thy charms can move :
Yet thou art worth my pity now,
Because thou hadst my love.
The Lady who offers her looking-glass to Venus
Venus, take my votive glass,
Since I am not what I was;
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
To John I ow'd great obligation;
But John, unhappily, thought fit
To publish it to all the nation :
Sure John and I are more than quit.
Yes, every poet is a fool :
By demonstration Ned can show it :
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.
Cupid Mistaken
As after noon, one summer's day,
Venus stood bathing in a river;
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new fill'd his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart:
With all his might his bow he drew :
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well-guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die !" the Goddess cried : "O cruel! couldst thou find none other To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother."
Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak : "Indeed, Mamma, I did not know ye; Alas! how easy my mistake!
I took you for your likeness, Cloe."
In vain you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain ?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose :
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet, and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said
That in her hair they look'd more gay,
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past;
She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak; When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life," said I, " explain This change of humour: prithee tell : That falling tear-what does it mean? '
She sigh'd; she smil'd: and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
"See! friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.
"Ah me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one :
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung; The am'rous youth around her bow'd: At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.
"Such as she is, who died to-day;
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow,'
She refusing to continue a Dispute with me, and leaving me
in the Argument
An Ode
Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read,
How much I argu'd on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustain'd an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err :
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On reason's force with beauty's join'd?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspir'd:
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desir'd.
But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delay'd;
And, arm'd with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight:
She drops her arms, to gain the field:
Secures her conquest by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turn'd his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew;
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent ; and as he fled, he slew.
The Lady's Looking-glass
Celia and I the other day
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea :
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost :
And, on the surface of the deep,
The wind lay only not asleep :
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.
But, oh the change! the winds grow high :
Impending tempests charge the sky :
The lightning flies: the thunder roars :
The big waves lash the frighten'd shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,
She turns her head, and wings her flight;
And trembling vows, she'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.
"Once more at least look back," said I ; "Thy-self in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humour dress'd; When gentle reason rules thy breast ; The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: "Tis then, that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love : I bless my chain: I hand my oar; Nor think on all I left on shore.
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