To his Cabin now confin'd
By Mopfus, who the Strain did bind;
Damon through the Woods does ftray,
Where his Kids have loft their way a
Young Narciffus' Iv'ry Brow,
Rac'd by a malicious Bough,
Keeps the girlish Boy from fight,
'Till Time shall do his Beauty right.
Lyes extended on the Grafs,
Tears his Garland, raves, despairs,
Mirth and Harmony forfwears;
Since he was this Morning shown,
That Delia muft not be his own.
DORINDA..
Foolish Swain, fuch Love to place
STLVIA.
On any, but Dorinda's Face.
DORIND A.
Hafty Nymph! I said not fo:
No; but I thy Meaning know.
Ev'ry Shepherd thou would't have
Not thy Lover, but thy Slave;
To encrease thy captive Train,
Never to be lov'd again;
But fince all are now away,
Prithee but a Moment ftay.
DORINDA.
No, the Strangers from the Vale,
Sure, will not this Meeting fail:,
Graceful one, the other fair,
He too, with the Penfive Air,
Told me, e'er he came this way,
He was wont to look more gay.
See how Pride thy Heart enclines
To think, for thee that Shepherd pines,
When thofe Words, that reach'd thy Ear,
Chloe was defign'd to hear;
Chloe, who did near thee ftand,
And his more fpeaking Looks command..
DORIND A.
Now thy Envy makes me fmile.
That! indeed, were worth his while:
Chloe, next thy felf, decay'd,
And no more a Courted-Maid.
Next my felf! Young Nymph, forbear,
Still the Swains allow me Fair;
Though, not what I was, that Day
When Colin bore the Prize away.
----Oh, hold! that Tale will laft
'Till all the Evening Sports are pass'd,
'Till no ftreak of Light is seen,
Nor Foot-step prints the flow'ry Green;
What thou wert, I need not know;
What I am, must hafte to fhow:
Only this I now difcern,
From the things thou'dit have me learn,
That Woman-kind's peculiar Joys
From paft, or prefent Beauties rife,
'Ou'd our first Father, at his toilfome Plough, Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
Cloath'd only in a rude, unpolish'd Skin;
Cou'd he, a vain, fantastick Nymph have feen,
In all her Airs, in all her Antick Graces;
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;
How had it pos'd that Skill, which late affign'd
Juft Appellations to each fev'ral Kind,
A right Idea of the Sight to frame,
To guefs from what new Element she came,
To hit the wavering Form, or give the Thing a
By the fame Hand.
HILE Monarchs in ftern Battel ftrove
For proud Imperial Sway,
Abandon'd to his Milder Love,
within a filent peaceful Grove, Alcidor careless lay.
Some term'd it cold unmanly Fear;
Some, Nicety of Sense;
That Drums and Trumpets cou'd not hear,
The fullying Blafts of Powder bear,
Or with foul Camps difpence.
A patient Martyr to their Scorn,
And each ill-fashion'd Jeft,
The Youth, who but for Love was born,
Remain'd, and thought it vaft Return,
To reign in Cloria's Breaft.
But oh! a ruffling Soldier came,
In all the Pomp of War;
The Gazettes long had fpoke his Fame,
Now Hautboys his Approach proclaim,
And draw in Crouds from far,
Cloria unhappily wou'd gaze;
And as he nearer drew,
The Man of Feather, and of Lace, Stopp'd fhort, and with profound Amaze, Took all her Charms to view.
A Bow, which from Campaigns he brought,
And to his Holfters low,
Her felf, and the Spectators taught,
That her the faireft Nymph he thought
Of all that form'd the Row.
Next Day, c'er Phoebus cou'd be seen,
Or any Gate unbarr'd,
At hers, upon th' adjoining Green,
From Ranks, with waving Flags between
Were foften'd Trumpets heard.
The Noon does following Treats provide
In the Pavillion's Shade;
The Neighbourhood, and all befide
That will attend the amorous Pride,
Are Wellcom'd, with the Maid.
Poor Alcidor, thy Hopes are crofs'd,
Go perish on the Ground;
Thy Sighs by ftronger Notes are tofs'd,
Drove back, or in the Paffage loft,
Rich Wines thy Tears have drown'd.
In Womens Hearts, the fofteft Things
Which Nature cou'd devife,
Are yet fome harsh and jarring Strings,
That when loud Fame, or Profit rings,
Will answer to the Noife.
Poor Alcidor, go Fight, or Die,
Let thy fond Notions cease;
Man was not made in Shades to lye,
Or his full Blifs at Eafe enjoy,
To Live, or Love, in Peace.
BAUCIS and PHILE MON
Imitated from OVID.
N ancient Times, as Story tells,
And ftrole about, but hide their Quality,
To try good Peoples Hospitality.
It happen'd on a Winter Night,
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade ;
Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits, went
To a fmall Village down in Kent;
Where, in the Strolers canting Strain,
They begg'd from Door to Door in vain
Try'd ev'ry Tone, might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let 'em in.
Our wand'ring Saints in woful State,
Treated at this ungodly Rate,
Having thro' all the Village pafs'd,
To a fmall Cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honeft Yeoman,
Call'd, in the Neighbourhood, Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hutt to pafs the Night;
And then the hofpitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire;
While he from out the Chimny took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook;
And freely from the fatteft Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'da
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