Verfe can give fame, can fading beauties fave,
And, after death, redeem them from the grave :
Embalm'd in verse, through diftant times they come,
Preferv'd, like bees within an ainber tomb.
Poets (like monarchs on an Eastern throne,
Restrain'd by nothing but their will alone)
Here can cry up, and there as boldly blame,
And, as they please, give infamy or fame.
In vain the Tyrian Queen refigns her life,
For the bright glory of a spotlefs wife,
If lying bards may false amours rehearse,
And blast her name with arbitrary verse;
While one, who all the abfence of her lord
Had her wide courts with preffing lovers ftor'd,
Yet, by a Poet grac'd, in deathless rhymes,
Stands a chafte pattern to fucceeding times.
With pity then the Muses' friends furvey,
Nor think your favours there are thrown away;
Wifely like feed on fruitful foil they're thrown,
To bring large crops of glory and renown :
For as the fun, that in the marshes breeds
Nothing but nauseous and unwholsome weeds,
With the fame rays, on rich and pregnant earth,
To pleasant flowers and useful fruits gives birth:
So favours caft on fools get only shame,
On Poets fhed, produce eternal fame;

Their generous breafts warm with a genial fire,
And more than all the Mufes can inspire.

* Dido.

+ Penelope.

JEALOUSY.

WH

JEALOUS Y.

I.

HO could more happy, who more bleft could live,
Than they whom kind, whom amorous paffions

move?

What crowns, what empires, greater joys could give, Than the foft chains, the flavery of Love?

Were not the blifs too often croft

By that unhappy, vile diftruft,

That gnawing doubt, that anxious fear, that dangerous malady,

That terrible tormenting rage, that madness, Jealousy.

II.

In vain Celinda boasts she has been true,

In vain the fwears the keeps untouch'd her charms;
Dire Jealoufy does all my pains renew,
And reprefents her in my rival's arms:
His fighs I hear, his looks I view,

I fee her damn'd advances too;

I fee her fimile, I fee her kifs; and, oh! methinks I fee Her give up all thofe joys to him, fhe fhould referve

for me.

III.

Ingrateful Fair-one! canft thou hear my groans?
Canft thou behold these tears that fill my eyes?
And yet, unmov'd by all my pains, my moans,
Into another's arms refign my prize?

3

If

If merit could not gain your love,

My fufferings might your pity move;

Might hinder you from adding thus, by jealous frenzies,

more

New pangs to one whom hopeless love had plagued too much before.

IV.

Think not, falfe nymph, my fury to out-storm;
I fcorn your anger, and defpife your frown:
Drefs up your rage in its most hideous form,
It will not move my heart when love is flown;
No, though you from my kindness fly,
My vengeance you shall satisfy :

The Muse, that would have sung your praise, shall now aloud proclaim

To the malicious, spiteful world, your infamy and shame.

V.

Ye Gods! fhe weeps; behold that falling fhower !
See how her eyes are quite dissolv'd in tears !
Can fhe in vain that precious torrent pour ?
Oh, no, it bears away my doubts and fears :
'Twas Pity fure that made it flow:

For the fame pity, stop it now;

For every charming, heavenly drop that from those eyes does part,

Is paid with streams of blood, that gush from my o'er

Yes, I will love; I will believe you true,
And raise my paffions up as high as e'er ;
Nay, I'll believe you falfe, yet love you too,
Let the least sign of penitence appear.

I'll

I'll frame excufes for your fault,

Think you furpriz'd, or meanly caught;

Nay in the fury, in the height of that abhorr'd embrace, Believe you thought, believe at least you wish'd, me in

the place.

VII.

Oh, let me lie whole ages in those arms,
And on that bofom lull asleep my cares:
Forgive thofe foolish fears of fancy'd harms

That stab my foul, while they but move thy tears ;
And think, unless I lov'd thee still,

I had not treated thee fo ill;

For these rude pangs of jealousy are much more certain figns

Of love, than all the tender words an amorous fancy

coins.

VIII.

Torment me with this horrid rage no more;
Oh fmile, and grant one reconciling kiss!
Ye Gods, fhe's kind! I'm ecftacy all o'er!
My foul 's too narrow to contain the bliss.
Thou pleafing torture of my breast,

Sure thou wert fram'd to plague my rest, Since both the Ill and Good you do, alike my peace destroy ;

That kills me with excess of grief, this with excess

of joy.

CUIR E

CURE OF JEALOUSY.

W

HAT tortures can there be in hell,

Compar'd to what fond lovers feel,

When, doating on fome fair-one's charms,
They think the yields them to their rival's arms?

As lions, though they once were tame,
Yet if fharp wounds their rage inflame,
Lift up their formy voices, roar,

And tear the keepers they obey'd before.

So fares the lover when his breaft
By jealous phrenzy is poffeft;

Forfwears the nymph for whom he burns,
Yet ftraight to her whom he forfwears returns.

But when the fair refolves his doubt,
The love comes in, the fear goes out;
The cloud of Jealoufy 's difpell'd,
And the bright fun of innocence reveal'd.

With what strange raptures is he blest!
Raptures too great to be expreft.

Though hard the torment 's to endure,
Who would not have the ficknefs for the cure?

SONNET.