EPILOGUE defign'd for SOPHONISBA,
And to have been spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.
EFORE you fign poor Sophonisba's doom,
In her
In her behalf petitioner I come;
Not but our author knows, whate'er I fay,
That I could find objections to his play.
This double marriage for her country's good,
I told him never would be understood,
And that ye all would fay, 'twas flesh and blood.
Had Carthage only been in madam's head,
Her champion never had been in her-bed:
For could the ideot think a husband's name
Would make him quit his intereft, friends and fame;
That he would rifque a kingdom for a wife,
And act dependent in a place for life?
Yet what ftern Cato fhall condemn the fair,
Whilft publick good she thunder'd in your ear,
If private intereft had a little share.
You know, fhe acted not against the laws
Of those old-fashioned times; that in her cause
Old Syphax could no longer make a stand,
And Maffiniffa woo'd her fword in hand.
But did she take the way to whet that sword?
Heroes fight coldly when wives give the word.
She should have kept him keen, employ'd her charms
Not as a bribe, but to reward his arms;
Have told him when Rome yielded fhe would yield,
And fent him fresh, not yawning, to the field.
She talk'd it well to rouse him to the fight,
But like Penelope, when out of fight,
All she had done by day, undid by night.
Is this your wily Carthaginian kind?
No English woman had been half so kind.
What from a husband's hand could she expect
But ratfbane, or that common fate, neglect?
Perhaps fome languishing foft fair may say,
Poyfon's fo fhocking-but confider pray,
She fear'd the Roman, he the marriage chain;
All other means to free them both were vain.
Let none then Maffiniffa's conduct blame,
He first his love confulted, then his fame.
And if the fair one with too little art,
Whilft feemingly she play'd a patriot-part,
Was fecretly the dupe of her own heart;
Forgive a fault she strove fo well to hide,
Nor be compaffion to her fate deny'd,
Who liv'd unhappily, and greatly dy'd.
An Imitation of the Eleventh Ode of the
Firft Book of HORACE.
Orbear, my dear Stephen, with a fruitless defire
Into truths which are better conceal'd to enquire;
Perhaps many years are allow'd us by Fate,
Or next winter perhaps is the last of their date :
Let the credulous fools whom aftrologers cheat,
Exult or defpond, as they vary deceit ;
Who anticipate care, their own pleasure destroy,
And invite disappointment who build upon joy;
All ills unforeseen we the easiest endure,
What avails to foresee, unless forefight could cure?
And from ills by their art how can wretches be freed,
When that art must be false, or those ills be decreed?
From reflection and hope little comfort we find,
To poffeffion alone let thy thoughts be confin'd;
To-day's all the treasure poor mortals can boast,
For to-morrow's not gain'd, and yesterday's loft;
Even now whilft I write, time steals on our youth,
And a moment's cut off from thy friendship and truth:
Then feize the swift bleffing, enjoy the dear now,
And take, not expect, what hereafter'll bestow,
'HAT fhall I fay to fix thy wav'ring mind,
To chase thy doubts, and force thee to be kind?
What weight of argument can turn the scale,
If interceffion from a lover fail?
By what shall I conjure thee to obey
This tender fummons, nor prolong thy ftay?
If unabated in this constant breaft
That paffion burns which once thy vows profess'd;
If abfence has not chill'd the languid flame,
Its ardour and its purity the fame;
Indulge those transports, and no more controul
The dictates of thy fond confenting foul;
By no vain scruple be thy purpose sway'd,
And only Love implicitly obey'd:
Let inclination this debate decide,
Nor be thy prudence, but thy heart thy guide:
But real prudence never can oppose
What Love fuggefts, and Gratitude avows:
The warm dear raptures which thy bosom move,
"Tis virtue to indulge, 'tis wifdom to improve:
For think how few the joys allow'd by Fate,
How mix'd the cup, how short their longest date!
How onward ftill the ftream of pleasure flows!
That no reflux the rapid current knows!
Not ev❜n thy charms can bribe the ruthlefs hand
Of rigid Time, to stay his ebbing fand;
Fair as thou art, that beauty must decay;
The night of age fucceeds the brightest day:
That cheek where Nature's sweeteft garden blows,
Her whiteft lily, and her warmeft rofe;
Those eyes, those meaning ministers of Love,
Who, what thy lips can only utter, prove;
These must resign their luftre, those their bloom,
And find with meaner charms one common doom:
Pass but a few short years, this change must be;
Nor one lefs dreadful fhalt thou mourn in me:
For tho' no chance can alienate my flame,
While thine to feed the lamp, fhall burn the fame,
Yet fhall the ftream of years abate that fire,
And cold efteem fucceed to warm defire:
Then on thy breast unraptur'd fhall I dwell,
Nor feel a joy beyond what I can tell :
Or fay, fhould fickness antedate that woe,
And intercept what Time would elfe allow;
If Pain should pall my tafte to all thy charms,
Or Death himself should tear me from thy arms;
How would'st thou then regret with fruitless truth,
The precious fquander'd hours of health and youth?
Come then, my love, nor trust the future day,
Live whilst we can, be happy whilst we may :
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