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The babe cry'd out, as if he understood,

And begg'd his pardon with what voice he

could.

By what expreffions can my grief be shown?
(Yet you may guefs my anguish by your own)
To fee my bowels, and, what yet was worse, 105
Your bowels too, condemn'd to fuch a curfe!
Out went the king; my voice its freedom found,
My breafts I beat, my blubber'd cheeks I

wound.

And now appear'd the meffenger of death; Sad were his looks, and fcarce he drew his breath,

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To fay, "Your father fends you"-(with that word

His trembling hands prefented me a fword :) "Your father fends

know,

.

this; and lets you

you this;

"That your own crimes the ufe of it will show." Too well I know the fenfe thofe words im

part:

His prefent fhall be treafur'd in my heart. 116 Are these the nuptial gifts a bride receives? And this the fatal dow'r a father gives?

Thou god of Marriage, fhun thy own difgrace, And take thy torch from this detefted place: 120 Instead of that, let furies light their brands, And fire my pile with their infernal hands,

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With happier fortune may my fifters wed
Warn'd by the dire example of the dead.
For thee, poor babe, what crime could they
pretend?

How could thy infant innocence offend?

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A guilt there was; but, oh, that guilt was mine!
Thou fuffer'ft for a fin that was not thine.
Thy mother's grief and crime! but just enjoy'd,
Shewn to my fight, and born to be destroy'd!
Unhappy offspring of my teeming womb!
Drag'd headlong from thy cradle to thy tomb!
Thy unoffending life I could not fave,
Nor weeping could I follow to thy grave:
Nor on thy tomb could offer my fhorn hair; 135
Nor fhew the grief which tender mothers bear.
Yet long thou shalt not from my arms be loft;
For foon I will o'ertake thy infant ghost.
But thou, my love, and now my love's defpair,
Perform his funerals with paternal care.
His fcatter'd limbs with my dead body burn;
And once more join us in the pious urn.
If on my wounded breaft thou dropp'ft a tear,
Think for whofe fake my breaft that wound did

bear;

And faithfully my laft defires fulfil,

As I perform my cruel father's will.

140

145

Ver. 146. As I perform] The fubject of this epiftle is so very difgufting and offenfive, that I could not bring my mind to make any obfervation upon it, and fuppofe Dryden tranflated it only to complete the volume. Dr. J. WARTON.

HELEN TO PARIS.

EPIST. XVII.

THE ARGUMENT.

Helen, having received an epiftle from Paris, returns the following anfwer: wherein she seems at firft to chide him for his prefumption in writing as he had done, which could only proceed from his low opinion of her virtue: then owns herself to be fenfible of the paffion, which he had expressed for her, though fhe much fufpected his conftancy; and at laft difcovers her inclination to be favourable to him: the whole letter fhewing the extreme artifice of womankind.

WHEN loose epiftles violate chaste eyes,
She half confents, who filently denies.
How dares a ftranger, with designs so vain,
Marriage and hospitable rights prophane?
Was it for this, your fleet did shelter find
From fwelling feas, and ev'ry faithlefs wind?
(For though a diftant country brought you forth,
Your ufage here was equal to your worth.)

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Does this deferve to be rewarded fo?

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Did you come here a stranger or a foe?
Your partial judgment may perhaps complain,
And think me barbarous for my just disdain.
Ill-bred then let me be, but not unchaste,
Nor my clear fame with any spot defac'd.
Though in
my
face there's no affected frown, 15
Nor in my carriage a feign'd nicenefs fhown,
I keep my honour still without a stain,
Nor has my love made any coxcomb vain.
Your boldness I with admiration fee;

What hope had
you to gain a queen like me? 20
Because a hero forc'd me once away,
Am I thought fit to be a second ?

Had I been won, I had deferv'd

prey

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your blame, But fure my part was nothing but the fhame. Yet the bafe theft to him no fruit did bear, I 'fcap'd unhurt by any thing but fear. Rude force might fome unwilling kiffes gain But that was all he ever could obtain. You on fuch terms would ne'er have let me go; Were he like you, we had not parted fo. Untouch'd the youth reftor'd me to my friends, And modeft ufage made me fome amends. 'Tis virtue to repent a vicious deed, Did he repent, that Paris might fucceed? Sure 'tis fome fate that fets me above wrongs, 35 Yet ftill expofes me to busy tongues.

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