Here, sweet extremes, alone, can truly bless:
The virtue of a lover is excess.

A maid unask'd may own a well-placed flame; Not loving first, but loving wrong is shame.

Contemn the little pride of giving pain, Nor think that conquest justifies disdain. Short is the period of insulting pow'r; Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour; Soon will resume the empire which he gave, And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.

Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,
Whose soul entire by him she loves possest,
Feels ev'ry vanity in fondness lost,

And asks no pow'r but that of pleasing most:
Hers is the bliss, in just return, to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her, inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.

But lest harsh Care the lover's peace destroy, And roughly blight the tender buds of Joy, Let Reason teach what Passion fain would hide, That Hymen's bands by Prudence should be tied.

Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry Fortune on their union frown;
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief :
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.

Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandon'd prostitutes are they
Who not to love, but avarice, fall a prey:
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife:
A maid so wedded is a whore for life.

Ev'n in the happiest choice, where fav'ring Heav'n Has equal love and easy fortune given,

Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done;

The prize of happiness must still be won :
And oft the careless find it to their cost,

The lover in the husband may be lost;

The Graces might, alone, his heart allure:

They and the Virtues, meeting, must, secure.

Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for him, and anxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or wo, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. The household sceptre if he bids you bear, Make it your pride his servant to appear; Endearing thus the common acts of life, The mistress still shall charm him in the wife: And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone : Ev'n o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn, His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.

Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder, to secure my own Against the pow'r of those already known; For well you twist the secret chains that bind, With gentle force, the captivated mind; Skill'd every soft attraction to employ, Each flatt'ring hope, and each alluring joy: I own your genius, and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.

SOLILOQUY

"TWAS

OF A BEAUTY IN THE COUNTRY.

[IBID.]

WAS night; and Flavia to her room retir'd,
With ev'ning chat and sober reading tir'd;
There, melancholy, pensive, and alone,
She meditates on the forsaken town;

On her rais'd arm reclin❜d her drooping head,
She sigh'd, and thus in plaintive accents said:

O

Ah! what avails it to be young and fair,

To move with negligence, to dress with care?
What worth have all the charms our pride can boast,
If all in envious solitude are lost?

Where none admire, 'tis useless to excel;

Where none are beaux, 'tis vain to be a belle :

Beauty, like wit, to judges should be shewn ;
Both most are valued where they best are known.
With every grace of nature, or of art,

We cannot break one stubborn country heart:
The brutes, insensible, our power defy :

To love, exceeds a 'squire's capacity.

The town, the court, is beauty's proper sphère ;
That is our heav'n, and we are angels there:
In that gay circle thousand Cupids rove;
The court of Britain is the court of Love.

How has my conscious heart with triumph glow'd,
How have my sparkling eyes their transport shew'd,
At each distinguish'd birth-night ball to see
The homage due to empire paid to me!

When every eye was fix'd on me alone,

And dreaded mine more than the monarch's frown;
When rival statesmen for my favour strove,

Less jealous in their power than in their love.
Chang'd is the scene, and all my glories die,
Like flowers transplanted to a colder sky;
Lost is the dear delight of giving pain,
The tyrant joy of hearing slaves complain.
In stupid indolence my life is spent,
Supinely calm and dully innocent:
Unbless'd I wear my useless time away,

Sleep, wretched maid! all night, and dream all day;
Go at set hours to dinner and to prayer,
For dulness ever must be regular.

Now with mama at tedious whist I play,
Now without scandal drink insipid tea,
Or in the garden breathe the country air,
Secure from meeting any tempter there;