DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.
PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play
From her own fex fhould mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pass-but that strange creature, Shore,,
I can't--indeed now-I fo hate a whore !—
Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear,
"How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear!"
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our fex are ftill forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom fo contrive,
We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome clofe corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up, moft fcandaloufly nice,
Amidft their virtues a referve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights, and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,
He has a Husband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife :
Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the Stoic Chief our Stage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might inftruct the City:
There many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To see a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the reft fo impudently good;
Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town
Come here in crowds, and ftare the ftrumpet down, 50
AY, lovely youth, that doft my heart command,
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Müft then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers chufe,
The lute neglected, and the Lyric Muse;
Love taught my tears in fadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe.
I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne.
Phaon to Ætna's fcorching fields retires,
While I confume with more than tra's fires!
ECQUID, ut infpecta eft ftudiofae littera dextrae,
Protinus eft oculis cognita nostra tuis ?
An, nifi legiffes auctoris nomina Sapphûs,
Hoc breve nefcires unde movetur opus?
Forfitan et quare mea fint alterna requiras
Carmina, cum lyricis fim magis apta modis.
Flendus amor meus eft: elegeïa flebile carmen ;
Non facit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas.
Uror, ut, indomitis ignem exercentibus Euris,
Fertilis accenfis meffibus ardet ager.
Arva Phaon celebrat diverfa Typhoïdos Ætnae,
Me calor Ætnaeo non minor igne coquit.
No more my foul a charm in music finds,
Mufic has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft fcenes of folitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are loft in only thine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!
Whom would not all those blooming charms furprize,
Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes?
The harp and bow would you like Phœbus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair, ́
Not Bacchus' felf with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame;
Nec mihi, difpofitis quae jungam carmina nervis,
Proveniunt; vacuae carmina mentis opus.
Nec me Pyrrhiades Methymniadefve puellae,
Nec me Lesbiadum caetera turba juvant.
Vilis Anactorie, vilis mihi candida Cydno:
Non oculis grata eft Atthis, ut ante, meis;
Atque aliae centum, quas non fine crimine amavi :
Improbe, multarum quod fuit, unus habes.
Eft in te facies, funt apti lufibus anni.
O facies oculis infidiofa meis!
Sume fidem et pharetram; fies manifeftus Apollo;
Accedant capiti cornua; Bacchus eris.
Nymphs that in verfe no more could rival me,
Then ev'n those Gods contend in charms with thee. 30
The Muses teach me all their softest lays,
And the wide world refounds with Sappho's praise.
Though great Alcæus more fublimely fings,
And strikes with bolder rage the founding strings,
No lefs renown attends the moving lyre,
Which Venus tunes, and all her Loves inspire;
To me what nature has in charms deny'd,
Is well by wit's more lafting flames supply'd.
Though fhort my ftature, yet my name extends
To heaven itself, and earth's remotest ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Infpir'd young Perfeus with a generous flame
Turtles and doves of differing hues unite,
And gloffy jet is pair'd with fhining white.
Et Phoebus Daphnen, et Gnofida Bacchus amavit;
Nec norat lyricos illa, vel illa modos.
At mihi Pegafides blandiffima carmina dictant;
Jam canitur toto nomen in orbe meum.
Nec plus Alcaeus, confors patriaeque lyraeque,
Laudis habet, quamvis grandius ille fonet.
Si mihi difficilis formam natura negavit ;
Ingenio formae damna rependo meae.
Sum brevis; at nomen, quod terras impleat omnes,
Eft mihi; menfuram nominis ipfa fero.
Candida fi non fum, placuit Cepheïa Perfeo
Andromede, patriae fufca colore fuae :
Et variis albae junguntur faepe columbae,
Et niger a viridi turtur amatur ave.
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