O may my fears be false! yet she delights
In just revenge of her abused rites.
I dread to hide, what yet to speak I dread,
Left you should think that for myself I plead.
Yet out it must:-'Tis this, 'tis furely this,
That is the fuel to your hot disease :
When waiting Hymen at your porch attends,
Her fatal meffenger the goddefs fends;
And when you would to his kind call confent,
This fever does your perjury prevent.
Forbear, forbear, thus to provoke her rage,
Which you so easily may yet afsuage:
Forbear to make that lovely charming' face
The prey to every envious disease:
Preferve thofe looks to be enjoy'd by me,
Which none should ever but with wonder fee.:
Let that fresh colour to your cheeks return,
Whofe glowing flame did all beholders burn:
But let on him, th' unhappy cause of all
The ills that from Diana's anger fall,
No greater torments light than those I feel,
When you, my dearest, tenderest part, are ill.
For, Oh! with what dire tortures am I rack'd,
Whom different griefs fucceffively distract!
Sometimes my grief from this does higher grow,
To think that I have caus'd fo much to you.
Then, great Diana 's witness, how I pray
That all our crimes on me alone she'd lay!
Sometimes to your lov'd doors difguis'd I come,
And all around them up and down I roam;
Till I
your woman coming from you spy,
With looks dejected, and a weeping eye.
With filent steps, like some fad ghost, I steal
Clofe up to her, and urge her to reveal
More than new queftions fuffer her to tell :
How you
had flept, what diet you had us'd ?
And oft the vain physician's art accus'd.
He every hour (oh, were I bleft as he !).
Does all the turns of your diftemper fee.
Why fit not I by your bed-fide all day,
My mournful head in your warm bofom lay,
Till with my tears the inward fires decay?
Why prefs not I your melting hand in mine,
And from your pulfe of my own health divine ?
But, oh! these wishes all are vain; and he
Whom most I fear, may now fit close by thee,
Forgetful as thou art of heaven and me.
He that lov'd hand doth prefs, and oft doth feign
Some new excufe to feel thy beating vein.
Then his bold hand up to your arm doth flide,
And in your panting breast itself does hide;
Kiffes fometimes he fnatches too from thee,
For his officious care too great a fee.
Robber, who gave thee leave to taste that lip,
And the ripe harvest of my kiffes reap?
For they are mine, fo is that bofom too,
Which, falfe as 'tis, fhall never harbour
Take, take away thofe thy adulterous hands,
For know, another lord that breast commands."
'Tis true, her father promis'd her to thee,
But heaven and the first gave herself to me:
And you in juftice therefore should decline
Your claim to that which is already mine.
This is the man, Cydippe, that excites
Diana's rage, to vindicate her rites.
Command him then not to approach thy door;
This done, the danger of your death is o'er.
For fear not, beauteous maid, but keep thy vow,
Which great Diana heard, and did allow.
And the who took it, will thy health restore,
And be propitious as the was before.
""Tis not the fteam of a flain heifer's blood
"That can allay the anger of a God:
"'Tis truth, and juftice to your vows, appeafe
"Their angry deities; and without these
"No flaughter'd beast their fury can divert,
"For that's a facrifice without a heart."
Some, bitter potions patiently endure,
And kifs the wounding lance that works their cure :
You have no need thefe cruel cures to feel,
Shun being perjur'd only, and be well.
Why let you fill your pious parents weep,
Whom you in ignorance of your promise keep ?
Oh! to your mother all our story tell,
And the whole progrefs of our love reveal :
Tell her how firft, at great Diana's fhrine,
I fix'd my eyes, my wondering eyes, on thine:
How like the ftatues there I stood amaz'd,
Whilft on thy face intemperately I gaz'd.
She will herself, when you my tale repeat,
Smile, and approve the amorous deceit.
Marry, she'll fay, whom heaven commends to thee,
He, who has pleas'd Diana, pleases me.
But should she ask from what descent I came,
My country, and my parents, and my name ;
Tell her, that none of these deserve my shame.
Had you not fworn, you fuch a one might chufe;
But, were he worse, now sworn, you can't refuse,
This in my dreams Diana bade me write,
And when I wak'd, sent Cupid to indite.
Obey them both, for one has wounded me,
Which wound if you with eyes of pity fee,
She too will foon relent that wounded thee,
Then to our joys with eager hafte we'll move,
As full of beauty you, as I of love :
To the great temple we 'll in triumph go,
And with our offerings at the altar bow.
A golden image there I'll confecrate,
Of the false Apple's innocent deceit ;
And write below the happy verfe that came
The meffenger of my fuccefsful flame.
"Let all the world this from Acontius know,
Cydippe has been faithful to her vow."
More I could write! but, fince thy illness reigns, And wracks thy tender limbs with sharpest pains, My pen falls down for fear, left this might be, Although for me too little, yet too much for thee..
The Poct in this fatire firft brings in Crifpinus, whom he had a lafh at in his firft fatire, and whom he promifes here not to be forgetful of for the future. He exposes his monftrous prodigality and luxury, in giving the price of an eftate for a barbel: and from thence takes occafion to introduce the principal fubject and true design of this fatire, which is grounded upon a ridiculous ftory of a turbot presented to Domitian, of fo vaft a bignefs, that all the Emperor's fcullery had not a dish large enough to hold it: Upon which the fenate in all hafte is fummoned, to confult in this exigency, what is fittest to be done. The Poet gives us a particular of the fenators' names, their diftinct characters, and speeches, and advice; and, after much and wife confultation, an expedient being found out and agreed upon, he difmiffes the fenate, and concludes the fatire.
NCE more Crifpinus call'd upon the stage
(Nor fhall once more fuffice) provokes my rage: A monster, to whom every vice lays claim,
Without one virtue to redeem his fame.
Feeble and fick, yet strong in luft alone,
The rank adulterer preys on all the town,
All but the widows' naufeous charms go down.
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