WHILE circling healths inspire your sprightly
And on each glafs fome beauty's praise is writ,
You afk, my friends, how can my filent Muse
To Montague's foft name a verse refuse?
Bright though the be, of race victorious sprung,
By wits ador'd, and by court-poets fung,
Unmov'd I hear her perfon call'd divine,
I fee her features uninfpiring fhine;
A fofter fair my foul to transport warms,
And, the once nam'd, no other nymph has charms.
MUSIC has learn'd the discords of the state,
And concerts jar with whig and tory hate.
Here Somerfet and Devonshire attend
The British Tofts, and every note commend,
To native merit juft, and pleas'd to fee
We've Roman arts, from Roman bondage free,
There fam'd L'Epine does equal skill employ,
While liftening peers crowd to th' ecstatic joy :
Bedford, to hear her fong, his dice forfakes,
And Nottingham is raptur'd when she shakes:
Lull'd statesmen melt away their drowsy cares
Of England's fafety in Italian airs.
Who would not fend each year blank passes o'er,
Rather than keep fuch strangers from our shore ?
THE Graces and the wandering Loves
Are fled to distant plains,
To chace the fawns, or deep in groves
To wound admiring swains.
With their bright mistress there they stray,
Who turns her careless eyes
From daily triumphs; yet, each day,
Beholds new triumphs in her way,
And conquers while the flies.
But fee! implor'd, by moving prayers,
To change the lover's pain,
Venus her harness'd doves prepares,
And brings the fair again.
Proud mortals, who this maid pursue,
Think you, fhe'll e'er refign?
Ceafe, fools, your wishes to renew,
Till the grows flesh and blood like you,
Or you, like her, divine!
AMOUR, je ne veux plus aimer ;
J'abjure à jamais ton empire:
Mon Cœur, laffé de fon Martire,
A réfolu de fe calmer.
L'AM. Contre moi, qui peut t'animer?
Iris, dans fes bras te rapelle.
LE P. Non, Iris eft une infidelle;
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
L'AM. Pour toi, j'ai pris foin d'enflamer
Le cœur d'une beauté nouvelle ;
Daphné. Le P. Non, Daphné n'est que belle;
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
L'Aм. D'un foupir, tu peux defarmer
Dircé, jufqu'ici si sauvauge.
LE P. Elle n'eft plus dans le bel age;
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
FRENCH OF MONSIEUR DE LA MOTTE.
POET. NO, Love-I ne'er will love again;
Thy Tyrant Empire I abjure;
My weary heart refolves to cure
Its wounds, and ease the raging pain.
LOVE. Fool? canft thou fly my happy reign?
Iris recalls thee to her arms.
POET. She's falfe-I hate her perjur'd charms;
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
LOVE. But know for thee I've toil'd to gain
Daphné, the bright, the reigning toast.
POET. Daphné but common eyes can boast;
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
LOVE. She who before fcorn'd every swain,
Dircé, fhall for one figh be thine.
POET. Age makes her rays too faintly fhine;
No, Love-I ne'er will love again.
L'AM. Mais fi je t'aidois à charmer
La jeune, la brilliante Flore.--
Tu rougis-vas-tu dire encore,
Amour, Je ne veux plus aimer ?
Le P. Non, Dieu charmant, daigne former
Pour nous une chaine eternelle;
Mais pour tout ce qui n'eft point elle,
Amour, je ne veux plus aimer.
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