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For ftruggling flaves a fharper doom fuftain,
Than fuch as foop obedient to the chain.
I own thy power, almighty Love! I'm thine;
With pinion'd hands behold me here refign!
Let this fubmiffion then my life obtain ;
Small praife 'twill be, if thus unarm'd I'm flain. Go, join thy mother's doves; with myrtle braid thy hair;
The god of war himself a chariot shall prepare;
Then thou triumphant through the shouting throng
Shalt ride, and move with art the willing birds along;
While captive youths and maids, in folemn state,
Adorn the scene, and on thy triumph wait.
There I, a later conqueft of thy bow,
In chains will follow too; and as I go,
To pitying eyes the new-made wound will flow.
Next, all that dare Love's fovereign power defy,
In fetters bound, inglorious fhall pass by:
All shall submit to thee-Th' applauding crowd 30
Shall fift their hands, and fing thy praife aloud.
Soft looks fall in thy equipage appear,
With amorous play, mistake, and jealous fear.
Be this thy guard, great Love!-be this thy train;
Since thefe extend o'er men and gods thy reign; 35
But, robb'd of thefe, thy power is weak and vain.
From heaven thy mother shall the pomp furvey,
And, fmiling, scatter fragrant fhowers of roles in thy
Whilft thou, array'd in thy unrival'd pride,
On golden wheels, all gold thy felf, shalt ride:
Thy spreading wings shall richest diamonds wear,
And gems tha:1 sparkle in thy lovely hair.
Thus paffing by, thy arm fhall hurl around
Ten thousand fires, ten thoufand hearts fhall wound.
This is thy practice, Love, and this thy gain;
From this thou canít not, if thou would'st, refrain ;
Since ev'n thy prefence, with prolific heat,
Does reach the heart, and active flames create.
From conquer'd India, so the * Jovial God,
Drawn o'er the plains by harnefs'd tigers, rođe,
Then fince, great Love, I take a willing place
Amidst thy fpoils, the facred fhow to grace;
O cease to wound, and let thy fatal store
Of piercing shafts be spent on me no inore.
No more, too powerful in my charmer's eyes,
Torment a flave, that for her beauty dies;
Or look in fimiles from thence, and I shall be
A flave no longer, but a God, like thee!
OME, my Mufe, a Venus draw; Not the fame the Grecians faw, By the fam'd Apelles wrought, Beauteous offspring of his thought.
No fantastic goddess mine,
Fiction far the does outfhine.
Queen of fancy! hither bring
On thy gaudy-feather'd wing
All the beauties of the spring.
Like the bee's induftrious pains
To collect his golden gains,
So from every flower and plant
Gather first th' immortal paint.
Fetch me lilies, fetch me rofes,.
Daifies, violets, cowflip-pofies.
Amaranthus' parrot pride,
Woodbines, Pinks, and what befide
Does th' embroider'd meads adorn,
Where the fawns and fatyrs play
In the merry month of May.
Steal the blush of opening morn;
Borrow Cynthia's filver white,.
When the fhines at noon of night,
Free from clouds to veil her light.
Juno's bird his tail shall spread,
Iris' bow its colours fhed,
All to deck this charming piece,
Far furpaffing ancient Greece.
First her graceful stature show,
Not too tall, not yet too low.
Fat the must not be, nor lean;
Let her fhape be straight and clean;
Small her wafte, and, thence increaft,
Gently fwells her rifing breast.
LET Phoebus his late happiness rehearse,
And grace Barn-Elms with never-dying verse!
Smooth was the Thames, his waters fleeping lay,
Unwak'd by winds that o'er the furface play;
When th' early god, arifing from the East,
Disclos'd the golden dawn, with blushes drest.
First in the ftream his own bright form he fees,
But brighter forms fhine through the neighbouring
He speeds the rifing day, and sheds his light
Redoubled on the grove, to gain a nearer fight.
Not with more speed his Daphne he pursued,
Nor fair Leucothoe with fuch pleasure view'd ;
Five dazzling nymphs in graceful pomp appear;
He thinks his Daphne and Leucothoe here,
Join'd with that heavenly three, who on mount Ide 15
Defcending once the prize of beauty try`d.
Ye verdant Elms, that towering grace this grove,
Be facred ftill to Beauty, and to Love!
No thunder break, nor lightning glare between
Your twisted boughs, but such as then was seen.
The grateful fun will every morning rife
Propitious here, faluting from the skies
Your lofty tops, indulg'd with sweetest air,
And every spring your loffes he'll repair;
Nor his own laurels more shall be his care.
AND THE SICKNESS OF THE FORMER.
AN altar raife to Friendship's holy flame,
Infcrib'd with Phoebe's and Afteria's name!
Around it mingled in a folemn band,
Let Phoebe's lovers, and Afteria's stand,