Amours

But you, my turtle, take the greatest share;

You too liv'd constant friends and free from strife

Your kindness was entire, and long as life:

What Pylades to his Orestes vow'd.

To thee, poor Poll, thy friendly turtle show'd,

And kept his love as long as fate allow'd.

But, ah! what did thy faith, thy plumes, and tail,

And what thy pretty speaking art, avail?

And what that thou wert giv'n, and pleas'd my miss,

Since now the bird's unhappy glory dies ?

A lovely verdant green grac'd ev'ry quill,

The deepest vivid red did paint thy bill;

In speaking thou didst ev'ry bird excel,

None prattled, and none lisp'd the words so well.

'Twas envy only sent this fierce disease;

Thou wert averse to war, and liv'dst in peace,

A talking harmless thing, and lov'dst thine ease.

The fighting quails still live 'midst all their strife,

And even that, perhaps, prolongs their life.

Thy meat was little, and thy prattling tongue

Would ne'er permit to make thy dinner long:

Plain fountain water all thy drink allow'd,

And nut and poppy-seed were all thy food.

The preying vultures and the kites remain,

And the unlucky crow still caws for rain;

The chough still lives 'midst fierce Minerva's hate,

And scarce nine hundred years conclude her fate;

But my poor Poll now hangs his sickly head,

My Poll, my present from the east, is dead.

Best things are sooner snatch'd by cov'tous fate,

To worse she freely gives a longer date;

Thersites brave Achilles' fate surviv'd,

And Hector fell, whilst all his brothers liv'd.

Why should I tell what vows Corinna made?

How oft she begg'd thy life, how oft she pray'd ?

The seventh day came, and now the Fates begin

To end the thread, they had no more to spin;

Yet still he talk'd, and when death nearer drew,

His last breath said, "Corinna, now adieu!"

There is a shady cypress grove below,

And thither (if such doubtful things we know)

The ghosts of pious birds departed go;

'Tis water'd well, and verdant all the year,

And birds obscene do never enter there;

There harmless swans securely take their rest,

And there the single Phoenix builds her nest;

Proud peacocks there display their gaudy train,

And billing turtles coo o'er all the plain:

To these dark shades my parrot's soul shall go,

And with his talk divert the birds below;

Whilst here his bones enjoy a noble grave,

A little marble, and an epitaph:-

"In talking I did ev'ry bird excel,

And my tomb proves my mistress lov'd me well."

And must I still be guilty, still untrue,

And when old crimes are purg'd, still charg'd with new?

What tho' at last my cause I clearly gain?

Yet I'm asham'd so oft to strive in vain,

And when the prize will scarce reward the pain.

If at the play I in fop-corner sit,

And with a squinting eye gloat o'er the pit,

Or view the boxes, you begin to fear,

And fancy straight some rival beauty there.

If any looks on me, you think you spy

A private assignation in her eye;

A silent soft discourse in ev'ry grace,

And tongues in all the features of her face.

If I praise any one, you tear your hair,

Show frantic tricks, and rage with wild despair;

If discommend, 0 then 'tis all deceit,

I strive to cloak my passion by the cheat.

If I look well, I then neglect your charms,

Lie dull and lazy in your active arms;

If weak my voice, if pale my looks appear,

0 then I languish for another fair.

Would I did sin, and you with cause complain,

For when we strive to shun, yet strive in vain,

'Tis comfort sure to have deserv'd the pain.

But sure fond fancies now such heats engage,

Your cred'lous peevish humour spoils your rage.

In frequent chidings I no force can see,

You frown too often to prevail with me;

The ass grows dull by stripes; the constant blow

Beats off his briskness, and he moves but slow.

But now I'm lavish of my kind embrace,

And Moll, forsooth, supplies her lady's place!

Kind love, forbid that I should stoop so low;

What! unto mean, ignoble beauties bow ?

A chambermaid ! no faith, my love flies high;

My quarry is a miss of quality.

Fye, who would clasp a slave ? who joy to feel

Her hands of iron and her sides of steel ?

'Twill damp an eager thought, 'twill check my mind,

To feel those knobs the lash hath left behind.

Besides, she dresses well, with lovely grace

She sets thy tow'r, and does adorn thy face;

Thy nat'ral beauty all her hearts improve,

And make me more enamour'd of my love.

Then why should I tempt her, and why betray

Thy useful slave, and have her turn'd away?