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Did e'er my tongue speak my unguarded heart
The least inclin'd to play the wanton's part ?
Did e'er my eye one inward thought reveal,
Which angels

ght not hear, and virgins tell ?
And hast thou, Henry, in my conduct known
One fault, but that which I must never own,
That I, of all mankind, have lov'd but thee alone?


Vainly thou talk'st of loving me alone :
Each man is man; and all our sex is one.
False are our words, and fickle is our mind :
Nor in Love's ritual can we ever find
Vows made to last, or promises to bind.

By Nature prompted, and for empire made,
Alike by strength or cunning we invade :
When, arm’d with rage, we march against the foc,
We lift the battle-axe, and draw the bow :
When, fir'd with passion, we attack the fair,
Delusive sighs and brittle vows we bear;
Our falsehood and our arms have equal use;
As they our conquest or delight produce.
The foolish heart thou gav'st, again receive,
The only boon departing love can give.
To be less wretched, be no longer true;
What strives to fly thee, why should'st thou pursue ?
Forget the present flame, indulge a new;
Single the loveliest of the amorous youth:
Ask for his vow; but hope not for his truth.
The next man (and the next thou shalt believe)
Will pawn his gods, intending to deceive;
Will kneel, implore, persist, o'ercome, and leave.

Hence let thy Cupid aim his arrows right;
Be wise and false, shun trouble, seek delight:
Change thou the first, nor wait thy lover's flight.
Why should'st thou weep? let Nature judge our

case ;
I saw thee young and fair ; pursued the chase
Of Youth and Beauty: I another saw
Fairer and younger : yielding to the law
Of our all-ruling mother, I pursued
More youth, more beauty : blest vicissitude!
My active heart still keeps its pristine flame;
The object alter'd, the desire the same.

This younger, fairer, pleads her rightful charms ;
With present power compels me to her arms.
And much I fear, from my subjected mind,
(If Beauty's force to constant love can bind,)
That years may roll, ere in her turn the maid
Shall weep the fury of my love decay'd;
And weeping follow me, as thou dost now,
With idle clamours of a broken vow.

Nor can the wildness of thy wishes err So wide, to hope that thou may'st live with her. Love, well thou know'st, no partnership allows : Cupid averse rejects divided vows : Then, from thy foolish heart, vain maid, remove An useless sorrow, and an ill-starr'd love; And leave me, with the fair, at large in woods to



Are we in life through one great errour led ? Is each man perjur'd, and each nymph betray'd ?

Of the superior sex art thou the worst ?
Am I of mine the most completely curst?
Yet let me go with thee ; and going prove,
From what I will endure, how much I love.

This potent beauty, this triumphant fair,
This happy object of our different care,
Her let me follow ; her let me attend
A servant (she may scorn the name of friend).
What she demands, incessant I'll prepare :
I'll weave her garlands; and I'll plait her hair :
My busy diligence shall deck her board,
(For there at least I may approach my lord,)
And, when her Henry's softer hours advise
His servant's absence, with dejected eyes
Far I'll recede, and sighs forbid to rise.

Yet, when increasing grief brings slow disease, And ebbing life, on terms severe as these, Will have its little lamp no longer fed; When Henry's mistress shows him Emma dead; Rescue my poor remains from vile neglect, With virgin honours let my hearse be deckt, And decent emblem; and at least persuade This happy nymph, that Emma may be laid Where thou, dear author of my death, where she, With frequent eye my sepulchre may see. The nymph amidst her joys may haply breathe One pious sigh, reflecting on my death, And the sad fate which she may one day prove, Who hopes from Henry's vows eternal love. And thou forsworn, thou cruel, as thou art, If Emma's image ever touch'd thy heart;


Thou sure must give one thought, and drop one

To her, whom love abandon’d to despair ;
To her, who, dying, on the wounded stone
Bid it in lasting characters be known,
That, of mankind, she lov'd but thee alone.


Hear, solemn Jove ; and conscious Venus, hear; And thou, bright maid, believe me whilst I swear; No time, no change, no future flame, shall move The well-plac'd basis of my lasting love. O powerful virtue! O victorious fair ! At least, excuse a trial too severe : Receive the triumph, and forget the war.

No banish'd man, condemn'd in woods to rove, Entreats thy pardon, and implores thy love : No perjur'd knight desires to quit thy arms, Fairest collection of thy sex's charms, Crown of my love, and honour of my youth ! Henry, thy Henry, with eternal truth, As thou may'st wish, shall all his life employ, And found his glory in his Emma's joy.

In me behold the potent Edgar's heir, Illustrious earl : him terrible in war Let Loyre confess, for she has felt his sword, And trembling filed before the British lord. Him great in peace and wealth fair Deva knows; For she amidst his spacious meadows flows; Inclines her urn upon his fattend lands; And sees his numerous herds imprint her sands.

And thou, my fair, my dove, shalt raise thy

'To greatness next to empire : shalt be brought
With solemn pomp to my paternal seat;
Where peace and plenty on thy word shall wait.
Music and song shall wake the marriage-day :
And, whilst the priests accuse the bride's delay,
Myrtles and roses shall obstruct her way.
Friendship shall still thy evening feasts adorn ;
And blooming Peace shall ever bless thy morn.
Succeeding years their happy race shall run,
And Age, unheeded, by delight come on :
While yet superior Love shall mock his power :
And when old Time shall turn the fated hour,
Which only can our well-tied knot unfold,
What rests of both, one sepulchre shall hold.

Hence then for ever from my Emma's breast,
(That heaven of softness, and that seat of rest)
Ye doubts and fears, and all that know to move
Tormenting grief, and all that trouble love,
Scatter'd by winds recede, and wild in forests rove.


O day, the fairest sure that ever rose ! Period and end of anxious Emma's woes! Sire of her joy, and source of her delight; O! wing'd with pleasure, take thy happy flight, And give each future morn a tincture of thy white. Yet tell thy votary, potent queen of love, Henry, my Henry, will he never rove ? Will he be ever kind, and just, and good ? And is there yet no mistress in the wood ?

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