LOVE prov'd LUNA C Y.

YE gods, what a paffion is love!

Difcertion and prudence it rules;

All obftacles it can remove

And wife men it makes very fools.

Our ladies it turns upfide-down,

Their minds and their legs it bewitches;

It brings them flap-dash on the town,
And leads them o'er hedges and ditches.

But what ftill is worfe than the reft,
There's no knowing the end of its scope
To the mifs in her teens 'tis a peft,
And makes ladies at forty elope.

The parlour, the garret, the kitchen,
In all, it has fovereign sway;
To the maids, ''tis a comical twitching,
And eternally leads 'em astray.

'Tis a phrenfy bewilders the head,

'Tis the Will of the Whisp of the tail: It plagues us both up and in bed,

And oft lays us faft in a jail.

Some show it in furor and gigg,

Some pout, and recline on the arm;
Some riggle and twift like a grigg,
And fome melt away with the charm.

In maidens, it may be allow'd,
In wives 'tis the road to all evil;
When to God at the altar they vow'd-
Then to fwerve is to go to the devil.

But ftill 'tis a paffion fo ftrong,

No herb or advice can remove it,
The ladies, tho' all in the wrong,
Will facrifice life---but they'll prove it.

Oppofing, but gives it new vigour,
Enjoyment destroys all its power;

'Tis fuperior to every rigour,
'Tis mortality's lunatic hour.

LIBERTY:

N 4

LIBERTY: La LIBERTA.

ΤΗ

Newly tranflated from METASTATIO.

HANKS, Nice, for thy treacherous arts,
At length I breathe again,

The pitying gods have ta'en my part,

And eas'd a wretch's pain.

I feel, I feel, that from its chain,
My refcu'd foul is free,
Nor is it now I idly dream
Of fancied Liberty.

Extinguish'd is my ancient flame,
All calm my thoughts remain ;
And artful love in vain shall strive,
To lurk beneath disdain;
No longer, when thy name I hear,
My confcious colour flies,
No longer, when thy face I see,

My heart's emotions rife.

I fleep

Oft of my Nice's charms I speak,
Nor thrills my ftedfaft heart;
Oft I review the wrongs I bore,
Yet feel no inward fmart.

No quick alarms confound my fenfe

When Nice near I fee,

E'en with my rival I can smile,
And calmly talk of thee.

Speak to me with a placid mien,
Or treat me with disdain ;
Vain is to me the look fevere,
The gentle fmile as vain;
Loft is the empire o'er my foul,
Which once thofe lips poffeft;
Thofe eyes no longer can divine

Each fecret of my breast.

What

What pleases now, or grieves my mind,

What makes me fad or gay,

It is not in thy power to give,
Nor canft thou take away.

Each pleasant spot without thee charms,
The wood, the mead, the hill,
And scenes of dullness, e'en with thee;
Are fcenes of dullness ftill.

Judge, if I fpeak, with tongue fincere,
Thou ftill art wondrous fair;
Great are the beauties of thy form,
But not beyond compare.

And let not truth offend thy ear,
My eyes at length incline

To spy fome faults in that lov'd face
Which once appear'd divine.

When from its fecret, deep recefs,
I tore the painful dart;
(My shamefull weakness I confefs)
It feem'd to fplit my heart.
But to relieve a tortur'd mind,

To triumph o'er disdain,

To gain my captive self once more,

I'd fuffer every pain.

Caught

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