Amours

As furious hands upon yourself to lay?

The tigresses that haunt th' Armenian wood,

Will spare their proper young, though pinch'd for food;

Nor will the Libyan lionesses slay

Their whelps,—but woman are more fierce than they;

More barb'rous to the tender fruit they bear,

Nor nature's call, tho' loud she cries, will hear.

But righteous vengeance oft their crimes pursues,

And they are lost themselves, who would their

children lose;

The pois'nous drugs with mortal juices fill

Their veins, and, undesign'd, themselves they kill

Themselves upon the bier are breathless borne,

With hair tied up that was in ringlets worn,

Thro' weeping crowds that on their course attend;

Well may they weep for their unhappy end.

Forbid it, heaven, that what I say may prove

Presaging to the fair I blame and love;

Thus let me ne'er, ye pow'rs, her death deplore,

'Twas her first fault, and she'll offend no more;

No pardon she'll deserve a second time,

But, without mercy, punish then her crime.

Go, happy ring, who art about to bind

The fair one's finger; may the fair be kind.

Small is the present, tho' the love be great;

May she swift slip thee on thy taper seat.

As she and I, may thou with her agree,

And not too large, nor yet too little be.

To touch her hand thou wilt the pleasure have;

I now must envy what myself I gave.

O! would a Proteus or a Circe change

Me to thy form, that I like thee might range !

Then would I wish thee with her breasts to play,

And her left hand beneath her robes to stray.

Tho' straight she thought me, I will then appear

Loose and unfix'd, and slip I know not where.

Whene'er she writes some secret lines of love,

Lest the dry gum and wax should sticking prove,

He first she moistens : then sly care I take,

And but, when lines I like, impression make.

Of in her pocket fain she would me hide,

Close will I press her finger, and not slide;

Then cry, "My life, I ne'er shall thee disgrace,

And I am light; give me my proper place.

Still let me stick when in the bath you are;

If I catch damage,'tis not worth your care.

Yea, when the ring thy naked body spies,

It will transform, and I a man arise."

Why do I rave? thou little trifle, go,

And that I die for her let the dear creature know.

I'm now at—where my eyes can view,

Their old delights, but what I want in you:

Here purling streams cut thro' my pleasing bowr's,

Adorn my banks, and raise my drooping flow'rs;

Here trees with bending fruit in order stand,

Invite my eye, and tempt my greedy hand;

But half the pleasure of enjoyment's gone;

Since I must pluck them single and alone;

Why could not nature's kindness first contrive,

That faithful lovers should like spirits live,

Mix'd in one point and yet divided lie,

Enjoying an united liberty?

But since we must thro' distant regions go,

Why was not the same way design'd for two?

One single care determined still for both,

And the kind virgin join'd the loving youth?

Then should I think it pleasant way to go

Oe'r Alpine frost, and trace the hills of snow;

Then should I dare to view the horrid moors,

And walk the deserts of the Libyan shores;

Hear Scylla bark, and see Charybdis rave,

Suck in and vomit out the threat'ning wave;

Fearless through all I'd steer my feeble barge,

Secure, and safe with the celestial charge,

But now, though here my grateful fields afford

Choice fruits to cheer their malancholy lord;

Though here obedient streams the gard'ner leads,

In narrow channels through my flow'ry beds;

The poplars rise, and spread a shady grove,

Where I might lie, my little life improve,

And spend my minutes 'twixt a muse and love:

Yet these contributes little to my ease,

For without you they lose the power to please;

I seem to walk oe'r the fields of naked sand,

Or tread an antic maze in fairy land,

Where frightful specires, and pale shades appear,

And hollow groans invade my troubled ear;

Where ev'ry breeze that through my arbour flies,

First sadly murmurs, and then turns to sighs.

The vines love elms; what elms from vines remove?

Then why should I be parted from my love?

And yet by me you once devoutly swore,

By your own eyes, those stars that I adore,

That all my bus'ness you would make your own,

And never suffer me to be alone:

But faithless woman nat'rally deceives,

Their frequent oaths are like the falling leaves,

Which when a storm has from the branches tore

Are lost by ev'ry blast, and seen no more:

Yet if you will be true, your vows retrieve,