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How ftrangely are our love and hate misplac'd!
Freedom we feek, and yet from freedom flee;
Courting thofe tyrant-fins that chain us faft,

And thunning Death, that only fets us free.

'Tis not a foolish fear of future pains, (Why should they fearwho keep their fouls from ftains?) That makes me dread thy terrors, Death, to fee: 'Tis not the lofs of riches, or of fame, Or the vain toys the vulgar pleasures name; "Tis nothing, Cælia, but the loling thee.


E L E G Y.

To his falfe mistress.

ELIA, your tricks will now no longer pafs,
And I'm no more the fool that once I was.

I know my happier rival does obtain

All the vaft blifs for which I figh in vain.
Him, him you love, to me you use your art ;
I had your looks, another had your heart:
To me you're fick, to me of fpies afraid;

He finds your fickness gone, your fpies betray'd:
I figh beneath your window all the night;
He in your arms poffeffes the delight.

I know you treat me thus, falfe fair, I do;

And, oh! what plagues me worfe, he knows it too;
To him my fighs are told, my letters shown,
And all my pains are his diverfion grown.
Yet, fince you could fuch horrid treasons act,
I'm pleas'd you chofe out him to do the fact:
His vanity does for my wrongs atone,
And 'tis by that I have your falfehood known.
What shall I do! for, treated at this rate,
I must not love, and yet I cannot hate :
I hate the actions, but I love the face;
Oh, were thy virtue more, or beauty lefs!
I'm all confufion, and my foul's on fire,
Torn by contending reafon and defire;

'his bids me love, that bids me love give o'er,
One counfels beft, the other pleafes more.
I know I ought to hate you for your fault,
But, oh! I cannot do the thing I ought.

Canft thou, mean wretch! canit thou contented prove
With the cold relicks of a rival's love?
Why did I fee that face to charm my breast?
Or, having feen, why did I know the rest?
Gods! if I have obey'd your just commands,
If I've deferv'd fome favour of your hands;
Make me that tame, that easy fool again,
And rid me of my knowledge and my pain:
And you, falfe fair! for whom so oft I've griev'd,
Pity a wretch that begs to be deceiv'd;
Forfwear yourself for one who dies for you,
Vow not a word of the whole charge was true;
But fcandals all, and forgeries, devis'd
By a vain wretch neglected and defpis'd.
I too will help to forward the deceit,
And to my power, contribute to the cheat.
And thou, bold man, who think'st to rival me,
For thy prefumption I could pardon thee;
I could forgive thy lying in her arms,
I could forgive thy rifling all her charms :
But, oh! I never can forgive the tongue
That boats her favours, and proclaims my wrong.

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WHEN I fee the bright nymph who my heart does enthral,

When I view her foft eyes, and her languishing air, Her merit fo great, my own merit fo finall,

It makes me adore, and it makes me despair.

But when I confider, fhe fquanders on fools

All thofe treasures of beauty with which the is ftor'd; My fancy it damps, my paffion it cools,

And it makes me defpife what before I ador❜d. Thus fometimes I defpair, and fometimes I defpife: I love, and I hate, but I never efteem: The paffion grows up when I view her bright eyes, Which my rivals deftroy when I look upon them. How wifely does Nature things fo different unite? In fuch odd compofitions our fafety is found; As the blood of a fcorpion 's a cure for the bite, So her felly makes whole whom her beauty does wound.


NELIA, too late you would repent; The offering all your store,


is now but like a pardon fent
To one that 's dead before.

While at the firft you cruel prov'd,
And grant the blifs too late;
You hinder'd me of one I lov'd,
To give me one I hate.

I thought you innocent as fair,
When firft my court I made;
But when your falfehoods plain appear,
My love no longer ftay'd.

Your bounty of thofe favours shown,
Whofe worth you first deface,

Is melting valued medals down,
And giving us the brafs,
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Oh, fince the thing we beg's a toy That's priz'd by love alone, Why cannot women grant the joy, Before our love is gone?



F gone, ye fighs! be gone, ye tears! Be gone, ye jealoufies and fears! Celinda fwears the never lov'd, Celinda fwears none ever mov'd Her heart, but I; if this be true, Shall I keep company with you? What though a fenfelefs rival fwore She faid as much to him before? What though I faw him in her bed?

I'll truft not what I saw, but what she said.
Curfe on the prudent and the wife,

Who ne'er believe fuch pleafing lies:
I grant the only does deceive;

I grant 'tis folly to believe;

But by this folly I vaft pleasures gain,

While you with all your wifdom live in pain.

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N what fad pomp the mournful charmer lies! Does the lament the victim of her eyes? Or would the hearts with soft compaffion more, To make them take the deeper ftamp of love? What youth fo wife, fo wary to escape, When Rigour comes, dreft up in Pity's shape? Let not in vain those precious tears be thed, Pity the dying fair one, not the dead; While you unjustly of the fates complain, I grieve as much for you, as much in vain. Each to relentless judges make their moan; Blame not Death's cruelty, but ceafe your own. While raging paffion both our fouls does wound, A fovereign balm might fure for both be found; Would you but wipe your fruitless tears away, And with a juft compaffion mine furvey.

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Love's like a toroh, which, if fecur'd from blafts,
Will faintlier burn, but then it longer lafts:
Expos'd to storms of jealoufy and doubt,
The blaze grows greater, but 'tis fooner out.

In imitation of Catullus.

S there a pious pleasure that proceeds
From contemplation of our virtuous deeds?
That all mean fordid actions we despise,
And scorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?
Thyrfis, thou haft fure bleffings laid in store,
From thy juft dealing in this curft amour:
What honour can in words or deeds be fhown,
Which to the fair thou haft not faid and done?
On her false heart they all are thrown away;
She only fwears, more eas'ly to betray.

Ye Powers! that know the many vows the broke,
Free my juft foul from this unequal yoke!
My love boils up, and, like a raging flood,
Runs through my veins, and taints my vital blood.

I do not vainly beg the may grow chaste,
Or with an equal paffion burn at laft;

Nor afk I vengeance on the perjur'd jilt;

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The one the cannot practise, though she would; ·

And I contemn the other, though the should:


'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt. I beg but balfam for my bleeding breast,

Cure for my wounds, and from my labours rest.



KNOW, Celinda, I have borne too long,
And, by forgiving, have increas'd my wrong:

Yet if there be a power in verfe to flack
Thy course in vice, or bring fled virtue back,
I'll undertake the task, howe'er so hard;
A generous action is its own reward.

Oh! were thy virtues equal to thy charms,
I'd fly from crowns to live within those arms:
But who, oh who, can e'er believe thee juft,
When fuch known falfehoods have deftroy'd all truft?

Farewell, falfe fair! nor fhall I longer stay,
Since we must part, why fhould we thus delay?
Your love alone was what my foul could prize,
And miffing that, can all the reft defpife;
Yet fhould I not repent my follies past,
Could you take up and grow referv'd at laft,

'Twould please me, parted from your fatal charms,
To fee you happy in another's arms.
Whatever threatenings fury might extort,
Oh fear not I fhould ever do you hurt :
For though my former paffion is remov'd,
I would not injure one I once had lov'd.
Adieu! while thus I waste my time in vain,
Sure there are maids I might entirely gain;
I'll fearch for fuch, and to the first that's true,
Reign the heart so hardly freed from you.




HLOE new-marry'd looks on men no more; Why then 'tis plain for what she look'd before.



NORNUS proclaims aloud his wife's a whore ; Alas, good Cornus, what can we do more? Wert thou no cuckold, we might make thee one; But being one, we cannot make thee none.

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Upon fome alterations in her face.

H, Cælia! where are now thy charms That did fuch wondrous paffions move? Time, cruel Time, thofe eyes difarms,

And blunts the feeble darts of Love. What malice does the tyrant bear

To womens' intereft, and to ours? Beauties in which the public fhare,

The greedy villain firft devours.

Who, without tears, can see a prince
That trains of fawning courtiers had,
Abandon'd, left without defence?

Nor is thy hapless fate lefs fad.
Thou who fo many fools haft known,
And all Le fool, would hardly do,
Shouldt now confine thyfelf to one!
And he, alas! a husband too.
See the ungrateful flaves, how fast

They from thy tetting glories run;
And in what nighty crowds they hafte
To worship Flavia's rifing fun!

In vain are all the practis'd wiles,

In vain thofe eyes would love impart;
Not all th' advances, all the fmiles,
Can move one unrelenting heart.
While Flavia, charming Flavia, ftill
By cruelty her caufe maintains;
And fearce vouchfafes a careless fmile

To the poor flaves that wear her chains.
Well, Cælia, let them wafte their tears;
But fure they will in time repine,
That thou haft not a face like hers,
Or fhe has not a heart like thine.



LL hail, ye fields, where conftant peace attends! All hail, ye facred folitary groves! All hail, ye books, my true, my real friends, Whofe converfation pleases and improves ! Could one who ftudy'd your fublimer rules

Become fo mad to fearch for joys abroad?

To run to towns, to herd with knaves and fools,
And undistinguish'd pafs among the crowd?
One to ambitious fancy 's made a prey,

Thinks happiness in great preferment lies;
Nor fears for that his country to betray,
Curft by the fools, and laught at by the wife.
Others, whom avaricious thoughts bewitch,

Confume their time to multiply their gains;
And, fancying wretched all that are not rich,
Neglect the end of life to get the means.
Others, the name of pleasure does invite,

All their dull time in fenfual joys they live;

And hope to gain that folid firm delight
By vice, which innocence alone can give,

But how perplext, alas! is human fate!
1, whom nor avarice nor pleasure move,
Who view with fcorn the trophies of the great,
Yet muft myself be made a flave to love.
If this dire paffion never will be gone,

If beauty always muft my heart enthral,
Oh! rather let me be confin'd to one,

Than madly thus be made a prey to all! One who has early known the pomps of ftate (For things unknown 'tis ignorance to condemn); And after having view'd the gaudy bait,

Can boldly fay, The Trifle I contemn.

In her bleft arms contented could I live,
Contented could I die: but oh! my mind
I feed with fancies, and my thoughts deceive,
With hope of things impoffible to find.

In women how fhould fenfe and beauty meet;
The wifeft men their youth in folly spend;
The best is he that earlieft finds the cheat,
And fees his errors while there's time to mead.



ISTRACTED with care
For Phyllis the fair,
Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Refolves in defpair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear fo much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would foon finish his woes.

When in rage he came there,
Beholding how steep
The fides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;
His torments projecting,

And fadly reflecting,

That a lover forfaken

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken

Can never be fet;

And, that he could die
Whenever he would,
But, that he could live
But as long as he could:
How grievous foever

The torment might grow,
He fcorn'd to endeavour
To finish it fo.

But bold, unconcern'd
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.

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I cannot but congratulat

Your refolution for a fingle ftate;

Ladies, who would live undisturb'd and free,
Muft never put on hymen's livery;
Perhaps its outfide feems to promise fair,
But underneath is nothing elfe but care.
If once you let the Gordian knot be ty'd,
Which turns the name of virgin into bride;
That one fond act your life's beft fcene foregoes,
And leads you in a labyrinth of woes,
Whofe ftrange meanders you may fearch about,
But never find the clue to let you out.
The married life affords you little ease,
The best of husbands is fo hard to please:
This in wives careful faces you may spell,
Though they diffemble their misfortune well.
No plague 's fo great as an ill-ruling head,
Yet 'tis a fate which few young ladies dread:
For love's infinuating fire they fan,
With fweet ideas of a god-like man.
Chloris and Phyllis glory'd in their swains,

And fung their praifes on the neighbouring plains;
Oh! they were brave, accomplish'd, charming men,
Angels till marry'd, but proud devils then.

Sure fome refiftless pow'r with Cupid fides,
Or we should have more virgins, fewer brides;
For fingle lives afford the most content,
Secure and happy, as they 're innocent:
Bright as Olympus, crown'd with endless eafe,
And calm as Neptune on the Halcyon feas:
Your fleep is broke with no domestic cares,
No bawling children to disturb your prayers;
No parting forrows to extort your tears,
No bluft'ring hufband to renew your fears!
Therefore, dear madam, let a friend advise,
Love and its idle deity defpife:

Supprefs wild Nature, if it dares rebel;
There's no fuch thing as "leading apes in hell."

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