But now my weary'd Muse, his Woes sorsake,
Begin another Scene, and turn the Prospect back;
O'er pass the rowling Years of flying Time,
And shew  in her Beauties Prime,
Divinely Fair, as the First  Maid.
E'er she for Knowledge, Innocence betray'd:
When in her Eyes sate smiling every Grace,
And the immortal Bloom was on her Face,
And bright unfully'd Glories, new Creation grace.
Only one Son preserv'd the Marshal's Line,
Whose Form was lovely, and his Soul Divine:
His Tour thro'  and  had been,
And  World the Travelling Youth had seen;
Return'd, improv'd, by skilful Masters taught,
With all their Language, and their Learning fraught;
Pleasing his Mean, so Gay, but truly Brave,
Nor yet to Vice, or Passion made a Slave:
The Courts Delight, for whom each Lady strove,
And put on all her Charms, to make him Love.
Lord  was now the only Theam,
Their daily Pleasure, and their nightly Dream;
at a Rural Mantion staid,
Left to the Conduct of the lovely Maid;
Content with what her Fortune did afford,
The Virgin thought not of her New come Lord:
The joyful Parents show'd their Darling round,
And every Pleasure his Return had crown'd;
Then leave the Town, their Country Seat to view,
And with Variety their Joys renew:
Soon as arriv'd,  Duty paid;
But Heav'n! How gaz'd the Youth, when he beheld the Maid!
In all the Realms that he had travell'd o'er,
He thought he ne'er had Beauty seen before;
He sigh'd, and look'd, and fasten'd there his Eyes,
And scarcely cou'd he hide the vast Surprize.
She saw him fix'd, the doubtful Virgin fear'd
She had done some Fault, so, blushing, disap.
As if the Sun had straight his Beams withdrawn,
And left no gladsome Ray, no twilight Dawn,
So seem'd to him the Place, dark and forlorn,
When Fair  from his Sight was gone;
Absent, her lovely Form remain'd behind,
Fix'd was her Image on his tender Mind:
He soon inquir'd who the Virgin was,
And smiling said, she had a charming Face.
Th' indulgent Mother, whose delightful Aim
Was to please him, from whom her Pleasures came,
With graceful Air, the whole Adventure tells,
And to his list'ning Ears, each Circumstance re.
He Blush'd, and Sigh'd at what she did relate,
And cry'd, 'tis sure some Mistery of Fate!
Her looks, do Awe, and Admiration strike!
Such Charms from Want? not Courts can show the like.
Sure Heaven mistook, and with a hasty Hand,
Form'd her a Slave, when it design'd Command;
The Talk was chang'd, but still his thinking Soul,
Was with the glorious bright Idea full:
He strugled hard, nor yeilded to the Snare,
But often cry'd, she is not sure so Fair;
Besides her Birth is mean, not worth my Care.
Urg'd by Desire, a second Sight he sought,
As if he wou'd correct his former Thought;
Thus treacherous Love draws the Unwary on,
The more they gaze, the more they are undone.
The pointed Rays had fill'd his Youthful Breast,
Th' amourous Fire, his daring Soul possest,
And quickly grew too great to be supprest.
The Brave, the soonest are to Love inclin'd,
And Love delights to sooth a generous Mind.
In vain the Youth with fated Passion strove,
For ev'ry Breast must yield to pow'rful Love.
The Sons of Art no Recipee have found;
In all their Store, to heal this pleasing Wound:
Had there in Herbs or Plants a Balm been known,
The God of Physick sure had cur'd his own;
He pines and sickens now with Loves excess,
His Sighs and Languishings his Pains confess;
His wonted Sports grew tastless to his Soul,
Triumphant Pashon all his Joys controul:
He hates the Court, shuns ev'ry charming Fair,
They cannot please, unless  there.
To some dark Grot, or Melancholly Grove,
The Youth retires, and breathes his hapless Love;
There vents his killing Griefs, and there complains,
And only tells the silent Trees his Pains.
A little Distance from the Palace stood,
A stately Shade of venerable Wood,
Which full a Hundred Years the Seasons bore,
And Rev'rend Trunks with Moss, were cover'd o'er;
Whose dusky Shade defi'd the Rays of Light,
And spite of Noon-day-beams, seem Sacred still to Night:
In this Retreat, the Love-sick Heroe chose,
To nurse his Flame, and to indulge his Woes;
too, to solitude inclin'd,
But her Amusement's of another kind:
Various Theams delight her easie Breast,
And no prevailing Thought disturbs her Rest;
Pensive she walks to take the Evening Air,
At her Approach, the Greens fresh Verdure wear;
For her Companion, flowing  chose,
And could her self harmonious Airs compose;
Officious Love, her wand'ring Steps betray'd,
And brought th' dispairing Youth, the lovely Maid;
Stretch'd on the Earth, beneath a Maple Shade,
As rooted there, poor  was laid;
His absent Soul was waiting on his Fair,
But Sense and Life return'd, as she drew near;
Straight with Convulsive Transports he was seiz'd
At the Surprize, alarm'd, disturb'd, and pleas'd.
The modest Maid, blushing, her Lord espy'd,
Obeysance made, and turn'd her Steps aside:
But when he saw the Virgin haste away,
Confus'd, he rose, and thus bespake her, Stay
Dear Nymph! you seem the Goddess of this Grove;
Or, what is more, th' Immortal Queen of Love!
Let that soft Form, a tender Heart contain,
With Pity, hear a dying Youth complain,
For mine are real Woes, and real Pain:
These Woods are Witness to my constant Flame,
Each Tree thy Cypher bears, tho' not thy Name;
Least jealous Eyes the mighty Secret find,
And to my Charmer, grow from thence unkind;
But when alone, my Tongue nought else will sound,
I reach the vaulted Skies, and pierce the hallow Ground:
To Eccho's Care, I send  Name,
And kindly she reverberates the same.
Oh! do not look with such relentless Eyes,
If you're unmov'd, your faithful Lover dies.
All Night, on Beds of Down, I restless rave,
On this cold Earth, I measure out my Grave;
'Tis you alone can help, 'tis you alone can save.
The Maid, whose Soul was suited to her Birth,
With noble Scorn, rais'd her fair Eyes from Earth;
Then with a Voice majestick and severe
Thus spoke, and gave the Love-sick Youth Di:
Because I to your Mother's bountious Hand,
For Food and Raiment do indebted stand,
You think, perhaps, you may the Slave com.
But tho', my Lord, my Niggard Star's deny'd
Me Wealth and Titles, they have giv'n me Pride:
If from my Wants, your wanton Hopes you frame,
Know I prize Honour, and a virt'ous Name.
My Heart's unconquer'd, and my Soul unstain'd,
A Fortitude by Heav'n it self maintain'd;
Nor Force, nor Flattery, can my Mind subdue,
Behold me then, great and resolv'd like you.
Surpriz'd at this! the wretched Lover cry'd,
If you're displeas'd, I wish ere this I'd dy'd:
In my unhappy Speech, what have I said
T' offend my dear belov'd bewitching Maid!
Beneath thy Feet let me for ever lye,
Or by your just Commands, condemn'd to die
If 'gainst your Honour I had least Design;
My Thoughts, tho' they are kind, are chast as thine;
When of my Love I make an Offering,
With Flames less pure then pious Vestals bring,
When in their Temple they sincerely pray,
And bright Devotion, at their Altars pay,
May all my Days and Nights be dash'd with woe,
Nor e'er the Blessing of Possession know:
May no Self-joys my longing Wishes Crown,
But Curse me still with a remorsless Frown;
Ne'er think I would destroy the Worship'd shrine,
Or wrong that Honour which I Court for mine:
'Tis  Torch is my auspicious Guide,
Directs my Love to seek you for my Bride:
Blest with that Hope, I bear the Pains of Life,
(I ask you, not a Mistress, but a Wife)
Else on the Instant wou'd I quit this Breath,
And seek my Peace in the cold Arms of Death:
Oh! twou'd o'erwhelm my Soul with Black Dispair,
If after all my Service, all my Care,
I did not hope to gain my charming Fair.
cease to think my Love a Crime,
And let my Faith be try'd, by that sure test of Time:
Injoyn me any thing that may convince
Of my Flames Durance, and its Innosence,
(The greatest Tortures I would undergo)
If you'll except it, and believe it so.
She listen'd now more Calm, and more Sedate,
Yet seem'd resolv'd, as the Decrees of Fate:
Then thus reply'd, Such Virtue sure has Charms,
But I am plac'd Inferiour to your Arms;
Such Honours might the most Ambitious move,
Who wou'd not prize the Treasure of your Love?
But I'm unworthy your exalted State,
And must except a more convenient Fate.
Let not ignoble Fires your Youth mislead,
With equal Fortune grace your Nuptial Bed;
A Father will direct you in your Choice,
There's no true Joys without the Parent's Voice;
Therefore no longer feed this fond Desire,
But here, in silence, let your Flames expire:
And that from Guilt  may remain,
That no ungrateful Act her Duty stain,
Thus in the Face of Heav'n firmly swear,
Your ill plac'd Passion I no more will hear,
Except your Father's free Consent you gain;
And Reason tells you, that Attempt is vain;
For he is cold, in his declining Years,
A dow'rless Wife's, the greatest Ill he fears:
Old Men are always fond of darling Gold,
Still strive to grasp the Earth they cannot hold.
Amongst the Great, some wealthy Fair adore,
Consult with Duty, urge this Suit no more;
Then with redoubled haste she flies away,
He call'd in vain, she wou'd no Answer stay.