Here ends their wrath, the parent feems fevere,
The ftroke's unfit for little Love to bear;
To fave their foe the melting Beauties fly,
And, cruel Mother, fpare thy child, they cry..
To Love's account they plac'd their death of late,
And now transfer the fad account to Fate:
The Mother, pleas'd, beheld the storm afswage,
Thank'd the calm mourners, and difmifs'd her rage.
Thus Fancy, once in dusky fhade.exprefs'd,
With empty terrors work'd the time of reft.
Where wretched Love endur'd a world of woe,
For all a Winter's length of night below.
Then foar'd, as fleep diffolv'd, unchain'd away,
And through the Port of Ivory reach'd the day.
As, mindlefs of their rage, he flowly fails
On pinions cumber'd in the misty vales;
(Ah, fool to light!) the Nymphs no more obey,
Nor was this region ever his to sway :
Caft in a deepen'd ring they close the plain,
And feize the god, reluctant all in vain.
HERE waving pines the brows of Ida fhade, The fwain, young Paris, half fupinely laid, Saw the loofe flocks through fhrubs unnumber'd rove, And, piping, call'd them to the gladded grove.
'Twas there he met the message of the skies, That he, the Judge of Beauty, deal the prize. The meffage known; one Love with anxious mind, To make his mother guard the time affign'd,
Drew forth her proud white swans, and trac'd the pair
That wheel her chariot in the purple air:
A golden bow behind his shoulder bends,
A golden quiver at his fide depends;
Pointing to these he nods, with fearless state,
And bids her safely meet the grand debate.
Another Love proceeds, with anxious care,
To make his ivory fleek the fhining hair;
Moves the loofe curls, and bids the forehead show,
In full expanfion, all its native fnow.
A third enclafps the many-colour'd ceft,
And, rul'd by Fancy, fets the filver vest;
When, to her fons, with intermingled fighs,
The Goddess of the rofy lips applies.
'Tis, now, my darling boys, a time to show
The love you feel, the filial aids you owe:
Yet, would we think that any dar'd to strive
For charms, when Venus and her Love 's alive?
Or fhould the prize of Beauty be deny'd,
Has Beauty's Empress aught to boast befide?
And, ting'd with poison, pleasing while it harms,
My darts I trusted to your infant arms;
If, when your hands have arch'd the golden bow,.
The World's great Ruler, bending, owns the blow,
Let no contending form invade my due,
Tall Juno's mien, nor Pallas eyes of blue.
But, grac'd with triumph, to the. Paphian shore
Your Venus bears the palms of conqueft o'er ;
And joyful fee my hundred altars there,
With coftly gums perfume the wanton air,
While thus the Cupids hear the Cyprian Dame,
The groves refounded where a Goddess came.
The warlike Pallas march'd with mighty ftride,
Her fhield forgot, her helmet laid aside.
Her hair unbound, in curls and order flow'd,
And Peace, or something like, her visage shew'd;
So, with her eyes ferene, and hopeful hafte,
The long-stretch'd alleys of the wood the trac'd
But, where the woods a fecond entrance found,
"With fcepter'd pomp and golden glory crown'd,
The ftately Juno ftalk'd, to reach the feat,
And hear the fentence in the last debate;
And long, feverely long, resent the grove;
In this, what boots, it fhe's the wife of Jove?
Arm'd with a grace at length, fecure to win,
The lovely Venus, fmiling, enters in ;
All sweet and fhining, near the youth the drew,
Her rofy neck ambrofial odours threw ;
The facred fcents diffus'd among the leaves,
Ran down the woods, and fill'd their hoary caves ;
The charms, fo amorous all, and each fo great,
The conquer'd Judge no longer keeps his feat;
Opprefs'd with light, he drops his weary'd eyes,
And fears he should be thought to doubt the prize.
ROM town fair Arabella flies:
The beaux unpowder'd grieve;
The rivers play before her eyes ;
The breezes, foftly breathing, rife;
The Spring begins to live.
Her lovers fwore, they must expire :
Yet quickly find their ease;
For, as he goes, their flames retire,
Love thrives before a nearer fire,
Efteem by distant rays.
Yet foon the fair-one will return,
When Summer quits the plain:
Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn;
Ye breezes, fadly fighing, mourn ;
Ye lovers, burn again.
'Tis conftancy enough in love
That Nature's fairly fhewn :
To fearch for more, will fruitlefs prove
Romances, and the turtle dove,
The virtue boaft alone.
A RIDDLE.
UPON a bed of humble clay,
In all her garments loose,
A prostitute my mother lay,
To every comer's use.
Till one gallant, in heat of love,
His own peculiar made her ;
And to a region far above,
And fofter beds, convey'd her.
But, in his abfence, to his place
His rougher rival came;
And, with a cold conftrain'd embrace,
Begat me on the dame.
I then appear'd to public view
A creature wondrous bright;
But fhortly perishable too,
Inconftant, nice, and light.
On feathers not together faft
I wildly flew about,
And from my father's country pass'd
To find my mother out.
Where her gallant, of her beguild,
With me enamour'd grew, And I, that was my mother's child, Brought forth my mother too.
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