Must I be doom'd, if human kind
In love disclose an impious mind?
With oaths, and death, and falsehood play,
Whilst perjured vows the heart betray.
If Heaven's despised-if all their aim
Be wealth or lust-am I to blame?
No, mighty powers! you know too well,
In spite of heaven, in spite of hell,
Of slighted love and reason too,
And all that pitying Love can do,
Men, to indulge their passions prone,
Owe to themselves their crimes alone.
Yet, cruel gods, if you decree
To spare mankind and punish me;
If I must be their victim made,
I am not for myself afraid,
"But for the woes my wretched fate
Will soon in either world create:
While heaven and earth my fall o'erturns,
And nature my destruction mourns.
For what can stand, if Love contemn'd
To shades infernal be condemn'd?
Yet since your gloomy frowns declare
My only refuge is despair,

Not thus to leave you all in woe,
Take this last boon before I go;
Take it, and feeling Love's sweet pain,
Ere you condemn me think again."
He spoke, and secret cast his darts,
Snatch'd from his quiver, at their hearts.

*

*

*

This nymph, on whom I said he doats,
He loved when in his petticoats;
She's called Moria, though you know
Folly's her fav'rite name below:
The creature's handsome, and, indeed,
Has beauties which all praise exceed;
And yet this nymph, possess'd of charms
To tempt a Phoebus to her arms,
Is still so giddy, wild, and weak,
Half idiot, half coquet and rake;
Is such a rattle, such a romp,
So fond of cards, tea-tattle, pomp,
Of feasts, balls, visits, drums, and park,
And little frolics in the dark,
That as with willing dotage sway'd,
Love's ruled by this deluding maid;
"Tis plain by her, and her alone,
The glory of my son's o'erthrown.
She sets him on a world of freaks,

She makes him herd with cheats and rakes;
She brings him into brawls and scrapes,
And mischief in a thousand shapes;
And what's the most perplexing thought,
Keeps him from settling as he ought.
Till he was led by her, my boy
Gave me and every being joy.

The cause thus shown of his ill carriage,
Next comes the cure-in short, 'tis marriage.
There is a Goddess sitting there,
That might reclaim him by her care;
And, with her pardon, I must name
Sage Metis, that transcendant dame,
Whose aid the gods sometimes implore,
And men by Wisdom's name adore."

Up blush'd good Metis to the eyes,
But show'd more pleasure than surprise:
Joy, mix'd with wonder, secret stole
Warm'd to her heart, and fill'd her soul;
Some virgin fears about her hung,
While modest shame tied up her tongue;
Yet silent all her thoughts were seen,
And glad went on the Paphian Queen.
*

*

*

"And as for money, I can seize,
From my rich temples, what I please;
There, my gold statues I'll purloin,
And turn them all to ready coin."
So said, so done: from Cnidos four
She took, from Cyprus many more;
Expending such a mint of gold

As scarce all Lombard-street could hold:
And as for each new-fashion'd thing
Her mind was ever on the wing,
Her wit and money she employs,
Like high-bred dames, to purchase toys;
For pomp her passion to display,
Fond she postponed the wedding-day;
Crowds of artificers were brought,
And night and day incessant wrought;
Mahogany laid all her floors,

Gold locks and hinges deck'd her doors;
With Indian screens and China jars,

Her house was graced, like heaven with stars.

Besides, as through the smallest hole
Men spy the day-light, so the soul,
In every little habitude,

With penetrating eye she view'd,
And saw appearances at least,

Which all her anxious doubts increased.
Oft when the lover's part he play'd,
His looks a soul unmoved betray'd:

For, when he courted her, the wretch
Would yawn, and sigh, and gape, and stretch;
And what the Goddess scarce could bear,
Would call her wise, but never fair.

In temper giddy as a child,

He fawn'd and quarrel'd, frown'd and smiled;
This day all ice, the next he burns,
Like agues, hot and cold by turns.
Now dress'd like country squires and plain,
He'd ride about in dirt and rain;
And as a proof of unfeign'd loving,
Put on the husband and the sloven:
Then, all those boorish whims abhorr'd,
He'd go as fine as any lord:
Grown fond of Metis to excess,
Would prove his passion by his dress;
And proud to show his love and clothes,
Swear over all his vows and oaths;
Then tired of that, he'd quite forsake
The Goddess, and affect the rake;
And fond of girls, and wine, and play,
Would scarce speak to her twice a day:
So fickle, that no weather-glass
Could through more variations pass.

In short, his conduct was so bad,

That grave good people thought him mad.
And mad he was as any hare

In March, while grieved he sought his fair;
For whom the wretch was all this while
Scouring by night the Cyprian isle,
Where, of the Goddesses afraid,

He heard they hid his charming maid.*
Venus, poor soul, now storm'd, now wept,
To get him in some order kept,
And took the truant oft aside,
And urged how much he shock'd his bride.

For Love, like many a senseless elf,
Thought his best counsellor himself.

But all this while a secret fear
Was buzzing Metis in the ear,
What ways or measures she should take:
She loved the God, but loathed the rake.
For though his person pleased the eye,
His actions gave his looks the lie:
When like a friend she blamed his pranks,
She found she got but little thanks;
For spite of all her wise discourse,
The little wretch show'd no remorse;
Would vow her ignorance and zeal
Struck fire, when join'd, like flint and steel.

In state approach the temple's gates, Where half the Cyprian nation waits, Till the high-priest their hands should tie In bands which time and death defy.

The gates unfold, they enter in, And soon the hallow'd rites begin; With hallow'd fires the altars blaze, The priest the bellowing victim slays; The hymn to Juno while he spoke, The nuptial cake in form was broke: But oh, amazing! as their hands Were joining in the nuptial bands, As Love prepared to give the ring, And the high-priest began to sing, Forth sprung Moria from the crowd, And, bold, forbade the banns aloud: "The God is mine, is mine," she cries, "Both by divine and human ties.

By solemn oaths our hearts are knit,
Two hearts that best each other fit.
Speak, Cupid, art thou mine alone?
Speak, and thy fond Moria own:
This infant which I go with claims,
You'll vow it sprung from heavenly flames."

Instant, enchanted with her face,
Rush'd Cupid to her loved embrace;
Ravish'd to meet her, and amazed,
Upon her witching charms he gazed,
And cried, "Bright nymph, I'm wholly thine,
And you, and only you, are mine."
The pontiff stared, and dropped his book.

She brought her cordials, made her tea
Of the best hyson or bohea;
To drive away each fretful thought,
She told what news the papers brought;
Whate'er in heaven or earth was done,
She told, but never named her son.
Ambrosia was her daily fare,
With nectar'd drams to doze despair;
She managed her with great address,
Made her play cards, backgammon, chess.
She got her out, and every morn
Around the skies would take a turn,
To try, while in their car they flew,
What air and exercise might do.
Whene'er her pain relax'd, she vow'd
No cure was like a brilliant crowd:
So, in the eve of each good day,
Coax'd her abroad to see the play.
Thus, like fine belles, she idly sought,
By vain delights to banish thought.

Venus despatches a messenger to remonstrate with Cupid, and to bring him back to Wisdom.

Swift through the air Irene pass'd,
And finds deluded love at last,
Gazing on Folly's beauteous face,
Feasting his eyes on every grace,
And thunders in his ears a peal
Of bold plain truths, with honest zeal :
Tells him the dreadful news she brings,
And the plain consequence of things;
Show'd all his mother's letters to him,
And vow'd Moria would undo him;
Said twice as much as Venus bid her,
And begg'd of Cupid to consider,
How his vile pranks and broken vows
Would Jove's insulted vengeance rouse;
Then adding threats, vow'd o'er and o'er,
The Gods would be deceived no more:
In short, she made his conduct look
So black, like aspen leaves he shook.

Till roused at last her deluged eyes,
Charm'd with a great design she tries:
Flush'd with the thought, she wings her flight
To the dun goddess of the Night:
She found her on a mountain's side,
Where rocks her palace portals hide;
Walls of thick mist its precincts close,
No groves, lodge, cawing rooks, or crows,
But solemn Silence, still as Death,
Lay slumbering on th' extended heath:
Old Nature built it under ground,
Shut from the day, remote from sound;
Its outstretch'd columns arch'd inclose
Vast voids devoted to repose,

Form'd of huge caverns so obscure,
As 'twere of light the sepulture.

*

*

*

Slow the yawning Goddess sighs, And, half asleep, with pain replies: "As I saw Love was false as fair, Know, child, I made your peace my care: While fond to fix his fickle heart, I've form'd this masterpiece of art: Here, take this phial, which I've fill'd With oils from female tears distill'd. *

*

*

Warm'd with your sighs, bedew it round
His eye-lids, seal'd in trance profound,
And by loved Erebus I swear,
The God your chains shall raptured wear:
Haste, use it-leave me to my rest.'
She sunk, with dozing fumes oppress'd.

So quick as airy Fancy flies,
Or beamy light shoots round the skies,
To Cupid's couch she wings her way,
Where, sunk in sleep, the dreamer lay;

[Erebus, the infernal deity, was married to Nox, the goddess, as all mythologists agree; and even Cicero teis us this is his 3d book of the Nature of the Gods. This marriage produced a crowd of horrid children, such as Deceit, Fear, Labour, Envy, and many others, among whom Folly is set down as one.]

Warm'd with her sighs, the oil, in rills,
Soft round his eye-lids she distils,
Then unperceived to bed she stole,
While joys enraptured swell'd her soul.
Wake, wretched Cupid, haste, arise,
Or never shall thy radiant eyes
Nature's fair face again survey,
Or the bright sun's delightful ray;
For by the magic arts of Night
Folly will rob thee of thy sight,
And by mad fondness, undesign'd,

Will make thee senseless, dark, and blind.
And now the virgin Light had rear'd
Her head, and o'er the mountains peer'd,
When Folly, glad her grand design
Was near the springing, like a mine,
Impatient for the great event
Of her dread mother's liniment,
Drew the bed-curtains, wild with joy,
To rouse the soul-subduing boy,
And cried, "Awake, my dear, the sun
Already has its course begun;

Whole nature smiles, while thus we use
The morn, fresh bathed in limpid dews."
Pleased he awakes; his ears rejoice
To hear her sweet bewitching voice,
And, fond, to see her turn'd his eyes,
But, starting, found, with deep surprise,
Though in their own warm melting rain
He bathed and rubb'd them long in vain :
Their powers of vision die away,
While dimm'd, nor conscious of the day;
Fruitless they roll their shining orbs,
Which the dark gloom of night absorbs.

"O Heaven!" he cries, "the Gods, I find, The cruel Gods, have struck me blind; Or rather Metis, in despite,

Has by some art destroy'd my sight.

*

Thus the gay hours delightful fly,
Till Folly's own good hour draws nigh,
When, twinged and pain'd, her labour came,
She sends for many a Carian dame;
By great Lucina's help and theirs,
To ease the burthen which she bears.
Great was her danger; for the fright
She took when Cupid lost his sight,
And the dread horror of her crime,
Had made her come before her time:
Yet blest with what she thought a treasure,
A girl at last was born, call'd Pleasure,
Of a weak, sickly, tender make,
Tall, thin, and slender as a rake;

So slight, it scarce would handling bear,
Fainting in spite of Folly's care:

For, as the sensitive plant, it seem'd
To shrink at every touch, and scream'd
Like mandrakes, when their tender shoots
Are torn upward by the roots.

*

*

*

Withal it had the loveliest face,
With such enchanting mien and grace,
No infant destined for a toast

Could such a set of features boast.

Could Venus see it, they believed Her favour might be yet retrieved.

Full of these views, their harness'd doves Bear them from Caria's fragrant groves, And though o'ertaken by the night, Safely near Paphos they alight;