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And Phædra, defperate, feeks the lonely groves,
To read her guilty letter while she roves ;
Red fhame confounds the first, the fecond wears
A ftarry crown, the third a halter bears.
Fair Leodamia mourns her nuptial night
Of love defrauded by the thirst of fight;
Yet, for another as delufive cries,
And, dauntless, sees her hero's ghost arise.
Here Thisbe, Canace, and Dido, stand,
All arm'd with fwords, a fair, but angry band,
This fword a lover own'd; a father gave
The next; a stranger chanc'd the last to leave.

And there ev'n fhe, the Goddess of the Grove,
Join'd with the phantom-fairs, affects to rove,
As once, for Latmos, fhe forfook the plain,
To steal the kifles of a flumbering swain:
Around her head a ftarry fillet twines,
And at the front a filver crescent shines.
These, and a thoufand, and a thousand more,
With facred rage recall the pangs they bore,
Strike the deep dart afresh, and ask relief,
Or footh the wound with softening words of grief
At fuch a tide, unheedful love invades
The dark receffes of the madding shades;
Through long descent he fans the fogs around;
His purple feathers, as he flies, refound.
The nimble beauties, crouding all to gaze,
Perceive the common troubler of their ease;
Though dulling mifts and dubious day destroy
The fine appearance of the fluttering boy,

Thoug

Though all the pomp that glitters at his fide,
The golden belt, the clafp and quiver hide;
And though the torch appear a gleam of white,
That faintly fpots, and moves in hazy night,
Yet ftill they know the god, the general foe,
And threatning lift their airy hands below.
From hence they lead him where a myrtle ftood,
The faddeft myrtle in the mournful wood ;
Devote to vex the gods, 'twas here before
Hell's awful Emprefs foft Adonis bore.
When the young hunter fcorn'd her graver air,
And only Venus warm'd his shadow there.

Fix'd to the trunk the tender boy they bind,
They cord his feet beneath, his hands behind;
He mourns, but vainly mourns his angry fate,
For Beauty, ftill relentlefs, acts in hate.
Though no offence be done, no judge be nigh,
Love must be guilty by the common cry;
For all are pleas'd, by partial Paffion led,
To fhift their follies on another's head.

Now fharp reproaches ring their fhrill alarms,
And all the heroines brandifh all their arms;
And every heroine makes it her decree,
That Cupid fuffer just the fame as the.

To fix the defperate halter one effay'd,

One feeks to wound him with an empty blade.
Some headlong hang the nodding rocks of air,
They fall in fancy, and he feels defpair.
Some tofs the hollow feas around his head
(The feas that want a wave afford a dread).

Or

Or fhake the torch, the fparkling fury flies,
And flames that never burn'd afflict his eyes.
The mournful Myrrha bursts her rended womb,
And drowns his vifage in a moift perfume.
While others, feeming mild, advife to wound
With humorous pains by fly dérifion found.
That prickling bodkins teach the blood to flow,
From whence the rofes firft begin to glow;
Or in their flames, to finge the boy prepare,
That all fhould chufe by wanton Fancy where.
The lovely Venus, with a bleeding breast,
She too fecurely through the circle preft,
Forgot the parent, urg'd his hasty fate,
And fpurr'd the female rage beyond debate;
O'er all her fcenes of frailty fwiftly runs,

Abfolves herself, and makes the crime her fon's,
That clasp'd in chains with Mars fhe chanc'd to lie,
A noted fable of the laughing sky;

That, from her love's intemperate heat, began
Sicanian Eryx, born a favage man;

The loofe Priapus, and the monster-wight,
In whom the fexes fhamefully unite.

Nor words fuffice the Goddess of the Fair,
She fnaps the rofy wreath that binds her hair;
Then on the God, who fear'd a fiercer woe,
Her hands, unpitying, dealt the frequent blow
From all his tender fkin a purple dew
The dreadful fcourges of the chaplet drew,
From whence the rofe, by Cupid ting'd before,
Now, doubly tinging, flames with luftre more.

Here

Here ends their wrath, the parent seems 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 asswage,
Thank'd the calm mourners, and difmifs'd her rage.
Thus Fancy, once in dusky shade exprefs'd,
With empty terror's 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.

THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS.

WHERE 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 meffage 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

Drew forth her proud white fwans, 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 fafely meet the grand debate.
Another Love proceeds, with anxious care,
To make his ivory fleek the shining hair;
Moves the loofe curls, and bids the forehead show,
In full expansion, all its native snow.

A third enclafps the many-colour'd ceft,
And, rul'd by Fancy, fets the filver veft;
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 Emprefs aught to boast befide?
And, ting'd with poison, pleasing while it harms,
My darts I trufted 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 fhore
Your Venus bears the palms of conqueft o'er;
And joyful fee my hundred altars there,
With coftly gums perfume the wanton air.

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