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Then, turning about to the hangman, he said, “ Dispatch me, I pr’ythee, this troublesome blade; For thy cord and my cord both equally tie, And we live by the gold for which other men die.”
Derry down, &c.
In vain you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over.
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love ?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain,
From slighted vows, and cold disdain ?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose :
That, thrown again upon the coast
Where first my shipwreck'd heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day:
And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past; She chang'd her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well,
“ My love, my life,” said I, “ explain This change of humour : pr’ythee tell:
That falling tear what does it mean?”.
She sigh’d; she smild; and, to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said : “ See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder, what a change is made!
“ Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of Beauty, are but one : At morn both flourish bright and gay ;
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
“ At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung ;
The amorous youth around her bow'd : At night her fatal knell was rung;
and kiss'd her in her shroud.
“ Such as she is, who died to-day ;
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow : Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.”
Miss Danaë, when fair and
(As Horace has divinely sung,)
Could not be kept from Jove's embrace
By doors of steel, and walls of brass.
The reason of the thing is clear,
Would Jove the naked truth aver.
Cupid was with him of the party,
And show'd himself sincere and hearty;
For, give that whipster but his errand,
He takes my lord chief justice' warrant:
Dauntless as Death, away he walks ;
Breaks the doors open, snaps the locks;
Searches the parlour, chamber, study;
Nor stops till he has culprit's body.
“ Since this has been authentic truth,
By age deliver'd down to youth ;
Tell us, mistaken husband, tell us,
Why so mysterious, why so jealous ?
Does the restraint, the bolt, the bar,
Make us less curious, her less fair ?
The spy, which does this treasure keep,
Does she ne'er say her prayers, nor sleep?
Does she to no excess incline?
Does she fly music, mirth, and wine?
Or have not gold and flattery power
To purchase one unguarded hour?
“ Yout care does further yet extend:
- That spy is guarded by your friend.
But has this friend nor eye nor heart?
May he not feel the cruel dart,
Which, soon or late, all mortals feel ?
May he not, with too tender zeal,
Give the fair prisoner cause to see,
How much he wishes she were free ?
May he not craftily infer
The rules of friendship too severe,
Which chain him to a hated trust;
Which make him wretched, to be just?
And may not she, this darling she,
Youthful and healthy, flesh and blood,
Easy with him, ill us’d by thee,
Allow this logic to be good ?”
“ Sir, will your questions never end ? I trust to neither spy nor friend. In short, I keep her from the sight Of every human face.” – “She'll write." “ From pen and paper she's debarr’d.” “ Has she a bodkin and a card ? She'll prick her mind.” But how shall she that mind convey ?
I keep her in one room : I lock it :
The key, (look here,) is in this pocket.'
“ The key-hole, is that left ?"
" Most certain. “ She'll thrust her letter through, sir Martin.”.
“ Dear, angry friend, what must be done?
“ Is there no way?"-" There is but one.
Send her abroad : and let her see,
That all this mingled mass, which she,
Being forbidden, longs to know,
Is a dull farce, an empty show,
Powder, and pocket-glass, and beau ;
A staple of romance and lies,
False tears and real perjuries :
Where sighs and looks are bought and sold,
And love is made but to be told :
Where the fat bawd and lavish heir
The spoils of ruin'd beauty share;
And youth, seduc'd from friends and fame,
Must give up age to want and shame.
Let her behold the frantic scene,
The women wretched, false the men :
And when, these certain ills to shun,
She would to thy embraces run;
Receive her with extended arms,
Seem more delighted with her charms;
Wait on her to the Park and play;
Put on good-humour ; make her gay;
Be to her virtues very kind;
Be to her faults a little blind;
Let all her ways be unconfin'd;
And clap your padlock - on her mind."