But, if, beneath thy numbers' foft disguise,
Some favour'd swain, fome true Alexis lies;
If Amaryllis breathes thy fecret pains,
And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains;
May'st thou, howe'er I grieve, for ever find
The flame propitious, and the lover kind!
May Venus long exert her happy power,
And make thy beauty, like thy verse, endure!
May every god his friendly aid afford,

Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board!
But, if by chance the feries of thy joys
Permit one thought lefs chearful to arise,
Piteous transfer it to the mournful fwain,
Who, loving much, who, not belov'd again,
Feels an ill-fated paffion's last excess,

And dies in woe, that thou may'ft live in peace.

TO A LADY:

She refusing to continue a DISPUTE with me, and leaving me in the ARGUMENT.

A N O D E.

I.

PARE, generous victor, fpare the flave,

SPA

Who did unequal war pursue;

That more than triumph he might have,

In being overcome by you.

II.

In the difpute whate'er I said,

My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your fide.
III.

You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have fuftain'd an open fight:
For feldom your opinions err;

Your eyes are always in the right.
IV.

Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reafon's force with Beauty's join'd?
Could I their prevalence deny,

I muft at once be deaf and blind.

V.

Alas! not hoping to fubdue,

I only to the fight aspir'd :
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I defir'd.
VI.

But fhe, howe'er of victory fure,

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd: And, arm'd with more immediate power, Calls cruel filence to her aid.

VII.

Deeper to wound, fhe fhuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conqueft by her flight;
And triumphs, when she seems to yield.

VIII. So,

VIII.

So, when the Parthian turn'd his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He fent; and, as he fled, he flew,

O

Seeing the Duke of ORMOND's Picture
at Sir GODFREY KNELLER'S.

UT from the injur'd canvas, Kneller, strike
These lines too faint: the picture is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again :
Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's duke: impendent in the air
Let his keen fabre, comet-like, appear,
Where'er it points, denouncing death: below
Draw routed fquadrons, and the numerous foe,
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow:

}

Till, weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood
Which from the Patriot's breaft in torrents flow'd,
He faints; his steed no longer feels the rein;
But stumbles o'er the heap, his hand had flain.
And now exhaufted, bleeding, pale he lies;
Lovely, fad object! in his half-clos'd eyes
Stern vengeance yet, and hoftile terror stand:
His front yet threatens, and his frowns command.
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call;
Fear to approach him, though they fee him fall.-
O Kneller,

F 3

O Kneller, could thy fhades and lights express
The perfect hero in that glorious dress;
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow:
In fpite of time, thy work might ever shine;
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine,

CELIA TO DAMON.

"Atque in amore mala hæc proprio, fumméque fecundo "Inveniuntur.

WE

Lucret. lib. iv.

HAT can I fay, what arguments can prove My truth, what colours can defcribe my love, If its excess and fury be not known,

In what thy Celia has already done?

Thy infant flames, whilft yet they were conceal'd In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld; With eafy fmiles difpell'd the filent fear, That durft not tell me what I dy'd to hear. In vain I ftrove to check my growing flame, Or fhelter paffion under friendship's name: You faw my heart, how it my tongue bely'd; And when you prefs'd, how faintly I deny’d.— Ere guardian thought could bring its fcatter'd aid, Ere reafon could fupport the doubting maid, My foul furpriz'd, and from herself disjoin'd, Left all referve, and all the fex, behind:

From

From your command her motions she receiv'd;
And not for me, but you, fhe breath'd and liv'd.
But ever bleft be Cytherea's fhrine,

And fires eternal on her altars shine!

Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;
Since in thy kindness my desires are crown'd.

By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown,
Thy joys are center'd all in me alone;

And fure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.

Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to excess,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how,
Should from my foul by raging love be torn,
And far on fwelling feas of rapture borne ;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,
And my heart labours with a fudden figh;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills foreseen the present bliss destroy.
Poor as it is, this beauty was the caufe,
That with first fighs your panting bosom rose:
But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away;
Pafs but fome fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast fome luftre lies)
No longer fhall their little honours keep;
Shall only be of ufe to read or weep:

And on this forehead, where your verse has faid,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,