In the Manner of O v I D.
Say, thou dear poffeffor of my breast,
Where now's my boasted liberty and reft!
Where the gay moments which I once have known,
O where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I folitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I fcorn the beauties common eyes adore,
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee-who art not there.
In vain would books their formal fuccour lend,
Nor wit, nor wisdom can relieve their friend;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,
And wisdom shows the ill without the cure.
When from thy fight I waste the tedious day,
A thou and fchemes I form, and things to fay;
But when thy prefence gives the time I feek,
My heart's fo full, I wish, but cannot speak.
And cou'd I fpeak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not studious of the art to please,
Cou'd I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expofe (nor blush) thy triumph and my fhame,
Abjure thofe maxims I fo lately priz'd,
And court that fex I foolishly defpis'd,
Own thou haft foften'd my obdurate mind,
And thou reveng'd the wrongs of womankind:
Loft were my words, and fruitlefs all my pain,
In vain to tell thee all I write in vain ;
My humble fighs fhall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence fhall be my tears.
And now (for more I never muft pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thoufands will fain thy little heart enfnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;
But wifely chufe who beft deserves thy flame,
So fhall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet defpife, tho' void of winning art,
The plain and honeft courtship of the heart:
The skilful tongue in love's perfuafive lore,
Tho' lefs it feels, will pleafe and flatter more,
And meanly learned in that guilty trade
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.
And fince their lips, fo knowing to deceive,
Thy unexperienc'd youth might foon believe,
And fince their tears in false fubmiffion drest
Might thaw the icy coldness of thy breast,
O! shut thine eyes to fuch deceitful woe;
Caught by the beauty of thy outward show,
Like me they do not love, whate'er they feem,
Like me-
-with paffion founded on esteem.
But fay, what hopes thy fond ill-fated love,
What can it hope, tho' mutual it fhou'd prove?
This little form is fair in vain for you,
In vain for me thy honeft heart is true;
For wou'd'ft thou fix dishonour on my name,
And give me up to penitence and shame;
Or gild my ruin with the name of wife,
And make me a poor virtuous wretch for life:
Cou'd'ft thou submit to wear the marriage chain,
(Too fure a cure for all thy prefent pain)
No faffron robe for us the godhead wears,
His torch inverted, and his face in tears.
Though ev'ry fofter wish were amply crown'd,
Love foon wou'd cease to smile where Fortune frown'd; Then wou'd thy foul my fond confent deplore,
And blame what it follicited before;
Thy own exhaufted wou'd reproach my truth,
And fay I had undone thy blinded youth;
That I had damp'd Ambition's nobler flame,
Eclips'd thy talents, and obfcur'd thy fame;
To madrigals and odes that wit confin'd,
That wou'd in fenates or in courts have shin'd,
Gloriously active in thy country's cause,
Afferting freedom, and enacting laws.
Or fay, at beft, that negatively kind
You only mourn'd, and filently repin'd;
The jealous dæmons in my own fond breast
Wou'd all these thoughts inceffantly fuggeft,
And all that sense must feel, tho' pity had fuppreft.
Yet added grief my apprehenfion fills
(If there can be addition to thofe ills)
When they shall cry, whofe harsh reproof I dread,
"'Twas thy own deed, thy folly on thy head!
Age knows not to allow for thoughtless youth,
Nor pities tenderness, nor honours truth;
Holds it romantic to confefs a heart,
And fays those virgins act a wifer part
Who hofpitals and bedlams wou'd explore
To find the rich, and only dread the poor;
Who legal prostitutes, for int'reft fake,
Clodios and Timons to their bofoms take,
And, if avenging heav'n permit increase,
People the world with folly and disease.
Thofe, titles, deeds, and rent-rolls only wed,
Whilft the best bidder mounts the venal bed,
And the grave aunt and formal fire approve
This nuptial fale, this auction of their love.
But if regard to worth or sense be shown,
That poor degenerate child her friends difown,
Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice
From her great name's hereditary vice.
These scenes my prudence ushers to my mind,
Of all the storms and quickfands I must find,
If I embark upon this fummer fea,
Where Flatt'ry smooths, and Pleasure gilds the way.
Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dang'rous flame
Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name,
I might upon that score thy heart receive,
And with that guiltless name my own deceive;
That commerce now in vain you recommend,
I dread the latent lover in the friend;
Of ignorance I want the poor excufe,
And know, I both must take, or both refuse.
Hear then the fafe, the firm resolve I make,
Ne'er to encourage one I must forsake.
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