Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.

OVID's EPISTLES, TRANSLATED BY SEVERAL HANDS.

Vel tibi composiT • cantetur Epistola voce: Ignotum hoc aliis ille novavit opus. Ovid.

LONDON, Printed for Iacob Tonson at the Sign of the Iudges Head in Chancery Lane, near Fleet-Street. 1680.

THE PREFACE TO OVID's EPISTLES.

THe Life of Ovid being already writen in our Language before the Translation of his Metamorphoses, I will not presume so far upon my self, to think I can add any thing to Mr. Sandys his undertaking. The English Reader may there be satisfied, that he flourish'd in the Reign of Augustus Caesar, that he was Extracted from an Antient Family of Roman Knights; that he was born to the Inheritance of a Splendid Fortune, that he was design'd to the Study of the Law; and had made considerable progress in it, before he quitted that Profession, for this of Poetry, to which he was more naturally form'd. The Cause of his Banishment is unknown; because he was himself unwilling further to provoke the Emperour, by ascribing it to any other reason, than what was pretended by Augustus, which was the Lasciviousness of his Elegies, and his Art of Love. 'Tis true they are not to be Excus'd in the severity of Manners, as being able to Corrupt a larger Empire, if there were any, than that of Rome; yet this may be said in behalf of Ovid, that no man has ever treated the Passion of Love with so much Delicacy of Thought, and of Expression, or search'd into the nature of it more Philosophically than he. And the Emperour who Condemn'd him, had as little reason as another man to punish that fault with so much severity, if at least he were the Authour of a certain Epigram, which is ascrib'd to him, relating to the Cause of the first Civil War betwixt himself and Mark Anthony the Triumvir, which is more fulsome than any pas • age I have met with in our Poet. To pass by the naked Familiarity of his Expressions to Horace, which are cited in that Authours Life, I need only mention one notorious Act of his in taking Livia to his Bed, when she was not only Married, but with Child by her Husband, then living. But Deeds, it seems, may be Iustified by Arbitrary Power, when words are question'd in a Poet. There is another ghess of the Grammarians, as far from truth as the first from Reason; they will have him Banish'd for ome favours, which they say he receiv'd from Julia, the Daughter of Augustus, whom they think he Celebrates under the Name of Corinna in his Elegies: but he who will observe the Verses which are made to that Mistress, may gather from the whole Contexture of them, that Corinna was not a Woman of the highest Quality: If Julia were then Married to Agrippa, why should our Poet make his Petition to Isis, for her safe Delivery, and afterwards, Condole her Miscarriage; which for ought he knew might be by her own Husband? Or indeed how durst he be so bold to make the least discovery of such a Crime, which was no less than Capital, especially Committed against a Person of Agrippa's Rank? Or if it were before her Marriage, he would surely have been more discreet, than to have publish'd an Accident, which must have been fatal to them both. But what most Confirms me against this Opinion is, that Ovid himself complains that the true Person of Corinna was found out by the Fame of his Verses to her: which if it had been Julia, he durst not have own'd; and besides, an immediate punishment m • st have follow'd. He seems himself more truly to have touch'd at the Cause of his Exile in those obscure Verses, Cur àliquid vidi, cur • oxia Lumina f • ci? &c. Namely, that he had either seen, or was Conscious to somewhat, which had procur'd him his disgrace. But neither am I satisfyed that this was the Incest of the Emperour with his own Daughter▪ For Augustus was of a Nature too vindicative to have contented himself with so small a Revenge, or so unsafe to himself, as that of simple Banishment, and would certainly have secur'd his Crimes from publick notice by the death of him who was witness to them. Neither have Histories given us any sight into such an Action of this Emperour: nor would he (the greatest Polititian of his time,) in all probability, have manag'd his Crimes with so little secresie, as not to shun the Observation of any man. It seems more probable that Ovid was either the Confident of some other passion, or that he had stumbled by some inadvertency upon the privacies of Livia, and seen her in a Bath: For the words Nudam sine veste Dianam, agree better with Livia, who had the Fame of Chastity, than with either of the Julias, who were both noted of Incontinency. The first Verses which were made by him in his Youth, and recited publickly, according to the Custom were, as he himself assures us to Corinna: his Banishment happen'd not till the Age of fifty; from which it may be deduc'd, with probability enough, that the love of Corinna, did not occasion it: Nay he tells us plainly, that his offence was that of Errour only, not of wickedness: and in the same paper of Verses also, that the cause was notoriously known at Rome, though it be left so obscure to after Ages.

But to leave Conjectures on a Subject so incertain, and to write somewhat more Authentick of this Poet: That he frequented the Court of Augustus, and was well receiv'd in it, is most undoubted: all his Poems bear the Character of a Court, and appear to be written as the French call it Cavalierement: Add to this, that the Titles of many of his Elegies, and more of his Letters in his Banishment, are address'd to persons well known to us, even at this distance, to have been considerable in that Court.

Nor was his acquaintance less with the famous Poets of his Age, than with the Noblemen and Ladies; he tells you himself, in a particular Account of his own Life, that Macer, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, and many others of them were his familiar Friends, and that some of them communicated their Writings to him: but that he had only seen Virgil.

If the Imitation of Nature be the business of a Poet, I know no Authour who can justly be compar'd with ours, especially in the Description of the Passions. And to prove this, I shall need no other Iudges than the generality of his Readers: for all Passions being inborn with us, we are almost equally Iudges when we are concern'd in the representation of them: Now I will appeal to any man who has read this Poet, whether he find not the natural Emotion of the same Passion in himself, which the Poet describes in his feign'd Persons? His thoughts which are the Pictures and results of those Passions, are generally such as naturally arise from those disorderly Motions of our Spirits. Yet, not to speak too partially in his behalf, I will confess that the Copiousness of his Wit was such, that he often writ too pointedly for his Subject, and made his persons speak more Eloquently than the violence of their Passion would admit: so that he is frequently witty out of season: leaving the Imitation of Nature, and the cooler dictates of his Iudgment, for the false applause of Fancy. Yet he seems to have found out this Imperfection in his riper age: for why else should he complain that his Metamorphosis was left unfinish'd? Nothing sure can be added to the Wit of that Poem, or of the rest: but many things ought to have been retrench'd; which I suppose would have been the business of his Age, if his Misfortunes had not come too fast upon him. But take him uncorrected as he is transmitted to us, and it must be acknowledg'd in spight of his Dutch Friends, the Commentators, even of Julius Scaliger himself, that Seneca's Censure will stand good against him; Nescivit quod bene cessit relinquere: he never knew how to give over, when he had done well: but continually varying the same sence an hundred waies, and taking up in another place, what he had more than enough inculcated before, he sometimes cloys his Readers instead of satisfying them: and gives occasion to his Translators, who dare not Cover him, to blush at the nakedness of their Father. This then is the Allay of Ovids writing, which is sufficiently recompenc'd by his other Excellencys; nay this very fault is not without it's Beauties: for the most severe Censor cannot but be pleas'd with the prodigality of his wit, though at the same time he could have wish'd, that the Master of it had been a better Menager. Every thing which he does, becomes him, and if sometimes he appear too gay, yet there is a secret gracefulness of youth, which accompanies his Writings, though the staydness and sobriety of Age be wanting. In the most material part, which is the Conduct, 'tis certain that he seldom has miscarried: for if his Elegies be compar'd with those of Tibullus, and Propertius his Contemporaries, it will be found that those Poets seldom design'd before they writ; And though the Language of Tibullus be more polish'd, and the Learning of Propertius, especially in his Fourth Book, more set out to ostentation: Yet their common practice, was to look no further before them than the next Line: whence it will inevitably follow, that they can drive to no certain point, but ramble from one Subject to another, and conclude with some what which is not of a piece with their beginning: Purpureus late qui splendeat, unus & alter Assuitur pannus: As Horace says, though the Verses are golden, they are but patch'd into the Garment. But our Poet has always the Goal in his Eye, which directs him in his Race; some Beautiful design, which he first establishes, and then contrives the means, which will naturally conduct it to his end. This will be Evident to Iudicious Readers in this work of his Epistles, of which somewhat, at least in general, will be expected.

The Title of them in our late Editions is Epistolae Heroidum, The Letters of the Heroines. But Heinsius has Iudg'd more truly, that the Inscription of our Authour was barely, Epistles; which he concludes from his cited Verses, where Ovid asserts this work as his own Invention, and not borrow'd from the Greeks, whom (as the Masters of their Learning,) the Romans usually did imitate. But it appears not from their writers, that any of the Grecians ever touch'd upon this way, which our Poet therefore justly has vindicated to himself. I quarrel not at the word Heroidum, because 'tis us'd by Ovid in his Art of Love: Jupiter ad veteres supplex Heroidas ibat. But sure he cou'd not be guilty of such an Oversight, to call his Work by the Name of Heroines, when there are divers men or Heroes, as Namely Paris, Leander, and Acontius, joyn'd in it. Except Sabinus, who writ some Answers to Ovids Letters, (Quam celer è toto rediit meus orbe Sabinus,) I remember not any of the Romans who have treated this Subject, save only Propertius, and that but once, in his Epistle of Arethusa to Lycotas, which is written so near the Style of Ovid, that it seems to be but an Imitation, and therefore ought not to defraud our Poet of the Glory of his Invention.

Concerning this work of the Epistles, I shall content my self to observe these few particulars. First, that they are generally granted to be the most perfect piece of Ovid, and that the Style of them is tenderly passionate and Courtly; two properties well agreeing with the Persons which were Heroines, and Lovers. Yet where the Characters were lower, as in Oenone, and Hero, he has kept close to Nature in drawing his Images after a Country Life, though perhaps he has Romaniz'd his Grecian Dames too much, and made them speak sometimes as if they had been born in the City of Rome, and under the Empire of Augustus. There seems to be no great variety in the particular Subjects which he has chosen: most of the Epistles being written from Ladies who were forsaken by their Lovers: which is the reason that many of the same thoughts come back upon us in divers Letters: But of the general Character of Women which is Modesty, he has taken a most becoming care; for his amorous Expressions go no further than virtue may allow, and therefore may be read, as he intended them, by Matrons without a blush.

Thus much concerning the Poet: whom you find translated by divers hands, that you may at least have that variety in the English, which the Subject denyed to the Authour of the Latine. It remains that I should say somewhat of Poetical Translations in general, and give my Opinion (with submission to better Iudgments) which way of Version seems to me most proper.

All Translation I suppose may be reduced to these three heads.

First, that of Metaphrase, or turning an Authour word by word, and Line by Line, from one Language into another. Thus, or near this manner, was Horace his Art of Poetry translated by Ben. Johnson. The second way is that of Paraphrase, or Translation with Latitude, where the Authour is kept in view by the Translator, so as never to be lost, but his words are not so strictly follow'd as his sense, and that too is admitted to be amplyfied, but not alter'd. Such is Mr. Wal • ers Translation of Virgils Fourth Aeneid. The Third way is that of Imitation, where the Translator (if now he has not lost that Name) assumes the liberty not only to vary from the words and sence, but to forsake them • both as he sees occasion: and taking only some general hints from the Original, to run division on the ground-work, as he pleases. Such is Mr. Cowleys practice in turning two Odes of Pindar, and one of Horace into English.

Concerning the first of these Methods, our Master Horace has given us this Caution, Nec verbum verbo curabis reddere, fidus Interpres— Nor word for word too faithfully translate. As the Earl of Roscommon has excellently render'd it. Too faithfully is indeed pedantically: 'tis a faith like that which proceeds from Superstition, blind and Zealous: Take it in the Expression of Sir John Denham, to Sir Rich Fanshaw, on his Version of the Pastor Fido. That servile path, thou nobly do'st decline, Of tracing word by word and Line by Line; A new and nobler way thou do'st pursue, To make Translations, and Translators too: They but preserve the Ashes, thou the Flame, True to his Sence, but truer to his Fame.

'Tis almost impossible to Translate verbally, and well, at the same time; For the Latin, (a most severe and Compendious Language) often expresses that in one word, which either the Barbarity, or the narrowness of modern Tongues cannot supply it more. 'Tis frequent also that the Conceit is couch'd in some Expression, which will be lost in English. Atque ijdem Venti vela fidèm que ferent. what Poet of our Nation is so happy as to express this thought Literally in English, and to strike Wit or almost Sense out of it?

In short the Verbal Copyer is incumber'd with so many difficulties at once, that he can never disintangle himself from all. He is to consider at the same time the thought of his Authour, and his words, and to find out the Counterpart to each in another Language: and besides this he is to confine himself to the compass of Numbers, and the Slavery of Rhime. 'Tis much like dancing on Ropes with fetter'd Leggs: A man may shun a f • ll by using Caution, but the gracefulness of Motion is not to be expected: and when we have said the best of it, 'tis but a foolish Task; for no sober man would put himself into a danger for the Applause of scaping without breaking his Neck. We see Ben. Johnson could not avoid obscurity in his literal Translation of Horace, attempted in the same compass of Lines: nay Horace himself could • earce have done it to a Greek Poet▪ Brevis esse laboro, obscurus • io. either perspicuity or gracefulness will frequently • e wanting. Horace has indeed avoided both these Rocks in his Translation of the three first Lines of Homers Odysses, which he has Contracted into two. Dic mihi Musa Virum captae post tempora Trojae Qui mores hominum multorum vidit & urbes. Muse, speak the man, who since the Siege of Troy, Earl of Rosc. So many Towns, such Change of Manners saw.

But then the sufferings of Ulysses, which are a Considerable part of that Sentence are omitted. 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉

The Consideration of these difficulties, in a servile, literal Translation, not long since made two of our famous Wits, Sir John Denham, and Mr. Cowley to contrive another way of turning Authours into our Tongue, call'd by the latter of them, Imitation As they were Friends, I suppose they Communicated their thoughts on this Subject to e • ch other, and therefore their reasons for it are little different: though the practice of one is much more moderate. I take Imitation of an Authour in their sense to be an Endeavour of a later Poet to write like one who has written before him on the same Subject: that is, not to Translate his words, or to be Confin'd to his Sense, but only to set him as a Patern, and to write, as he supposes, that Authour would have done, had he liv'd in our Age, and in our Country. Yet I dare not say that either of them have carried this libertine way of rendring Authours (as Mr. Cowley calls it) so far as my Definition reaches. For in the Pindarick Odes, the Customs and Ceremonies of Ancient Greece are still preserv'd: but I know not what mischief may arise hereafter from the Example of such an Innovation, when writers of unequal parts to him, shall imitate so bold an undertaking, to add and to diminish what we please, which is the way avow'd by him, ought only to be granted to Mr. Cowley, and that too only in his Translation of Pindar, because he alone was able to make him amends, by giving him better of his own, when ever he refus'd his Authours thoughts. Pindar is generally known to be a dark writer, to want Connexion, (I mean as to our understanding) to • oar out of sight, and leave his Reader at a Gaze: So wild and ungovernable a Poet cannot be Translated litterally, his Genius is too strong to bear a Chain, and Sampson like he shakes it off: A Genius so Elevated and unconfin'd as Mr. Cowley's, was but necessary to make Pindar speak English, and that was to be perform'd by no other way than Imitation. But if Virgil or Ovid, • or any regular intelligible Authours be thus us'd, • tis no longer to be call'd their work, when neither the thoughts nor words are drawn from the Original: but instead of them there is something new produc'd, which is almost the creation of another hand. By this way 'tis true, somewhat that is Excellent may be invented perhaps more Exellent than the first design, though Virgil must be still excepted, when that perhaps takes plac • Let he who is inquisitive to know an Authours thoughts will be disapointed in his expectation. And 'tis not always that a man will be contented to have a Present made him, when he expects the payment of a Debt. To state it fairly, Imitation of an Authour is the most advantagious way for a Translator to shew himself, but the greatest wrong which can be done to the Memory and Reputation of the dead. Sir John Denham (who advis'd more Liberty than he took himself,) gives this Reason for his Innovation, in his admirable Preface before the Translation of the second Aeneid: Poetry is of so subtila Spirit, that in pouring out of one Language into another, it will • ll Evaporate; and if a new Spirit be not added in the transfusion, there will remain nothing but a Caput Mortuum. I confess this Argument holds good against a litteral Translation, but who defends it? Imitation and verbal Version are in my Opinion the two Extreams, which ought to be avoided: and therefore when I have propos'd the mean betwixt them, it will be seen how far his Argument will reach.

No man is capable of Translating Poetry, who besides a Genius to that Art, is not a Master both of his Authours Language, and of his own: Nor must we understand the Language only of the Poet, but his particular turn of Thoughts, and of Expression, which are the Characters that distinguish, 〈…〉 When we are come thus far 'tis time to look into our selves to conform our 〈◊〉 to his, to give his thought either the same turn if our tongue will bear it, or if not, to vary but the dress, not to alter or destroy the substance. The like Care must be taken of the more outward Ornaments, the Words: when they appear (which is but seldom) litterally graceful, it were an injury to the Authour that they should be chang'd: But since every Language is so full of its own proprieties, that what is Beautiful in one, is often Barbarous, nay sometimes Nonsence in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a Translator to the narrow compass of his Authours words: 'tis enough if he choose out some Expression which does not vitiate the Sense. I suppose he may stretch his Chain to such a Latitude, but by innovation of thoughts, methinks he breaks it. By this means the Spirit of an Authour may be transfus'd, and yet not lost: and thus 'tis plain that the reason alledg'd by Sir. John Denham, ha • no farther force than to Expression: for thought, if it be Translated truly, cannot be lost in another Language, but the words that convey it to our apprehension (which are the Image and Ornament of that thought) may be so ill chosen as to make it appear in an unhandsome dress, and rob it of its native Lustre. There is therefore a Liberty to be allow'd for the Expression, neither is▪ it necessary that Wordes, and Lines should be confin'd to the measure of their Original. The 〈◊〉 of an Authour, generally speaking, is to be Sacred and inviolable. If the Fancy of Ovid be luxuriant, 'tis his Character ot be so, and if I retrench it, he is no longer Ovid. It will be replyed that he receives advantage by this lopping of his superfluous branches, but I rejoyn that a Translator has no such Right: when a Painter Copies form the life, I suppose he has no priviledge to alter Features, and Lineaments, under pretence that his Picture will look better: perhaps the Face which he has drawn would be more Exact, if the Eyes, or Nose were alter'd, but 'tis his business to make it resemble the Original. In two Cases only there may a seeming difficulty arise, that is, if the thought be notoriously trivial or dishonest; But he same Answer will serve for both, that then they ought not to be Translated. Et quae— Desperes tractata nitescere posse, relinquas.

Thus I have ventur'd to give my Opinion on this Subject against the Authority of two great men, but I hope without offence to either of their Memories, for I both lov'd them living, and reverence them now they are dead. But if after what I have urg'd, it be thought by better Iudges that the praise of a Translation Consists in adding new Beauties to the piece, thereby to recompence the loss which it sustains by change of Language, I shall be willing to be taught better, and to recant. In the mean time it seems to me, that the true reason why we have so few Versions which are tolerable, is not from the too close persuing of the Authours Sence: but because there are so few who have all the Talents which are requisite for Translation: and that there is so little praise and so small Encouragement for so considerable a part of Learning.

To apply in short, what has been said, to this present work, the Reader will here find most of the Translations, with some little Latitude or variation from the Authours Sence: That of Oenone to Paris is in Mr. Cowleys way of Imitation only. I was desir'd to say that the Authour who is of the Fair Sex, understood not Latine. But if she doe not, I am afraid she has given us occasion to be asham'd who do.

For my own part I am ready to acknowledge that I have transgress'd the Rules which I have given; and taken more liberty than a just Translation will allow. But so many Gentlemen whose Wit and Learning are well known, being Ioyn'd in it, I doubt not but that their Excellencies will make you ample Satisfaction for my Errours.

J. Dryden.

The TABLE. 1. SAppho to Phaon. By Sir Carr Scrope. Page 1 2. Ganace to Macareus. Mr. Dryden. 8 3. Phillis to Demophoon. Mr. Pooley. 18 4. Hypermnestra to Linus. Mr. Wright. 31 5. Ariadne to Theseus. 39 6. Hermione to Orestes. Mr. Pulteney. 50 7. Leander to Hero. By Mr. Tate. 59. 68 8. Hero to Leander By Mr. Tate. 59. 68 9. Laodamia to Protesilaus. Mr. Flatman. 76 10. Phillis to Demophoon. Mr. Floyd. 87 11. Oenone to Paris. Mrs. Behn. 97 12. Paris to Helen. Mr. Duke. 117 13. Helen to Paris. Ld. Mulgrave. & Mr. Dryden. 153 14. Penelope to Vlysses. Mr. Rymer. 169 15. Hipsiphyle to Iason. Mr. Settle. 177 16. Medea to Iason. Mr. Tate. 189 17. Phaedra to Hyppolitus, Mr. Otway. 203 18. Dido to Aeneas. Mr. Dryden. 215 19. The same by another Hand. 228 20. Briseis to Achilles. Mr. Caryl. 239 21. Deianira to Hercules. 251 22. Acontius to Cydippe. Mr. Duke. 260 23. Cydippe to Acontius. Mr. Butler. 274

SAPHO to PHAON: BY THE HONOURABLE Sir CARR. SCROPE, BARONET. The ARGUMENT.

• he Poetess Sapho forsaken by her Lover Phaon (who was gone from Lesbos to Sicily) and resolved, in Despair, to Drown her self, writes this Letter to him before she Dies.

WHile Ph • on to the flaming Aetna flies Consum'd with no less Fires poor Sapho dies. • urn, I burn, like kindled Fields of Corn, • hen by the driving Winds the flames are born. My Muse and Lute can now no longer please, They are th' Employments of a mind at ease. Wandring from thought to thought I sit alone All day, and my once dear Companions shun. In vain the Lesbian Maids claim each a part, Where thou alone hast ta'ne up all the heart. Ah lovely Youth! how can'st thou cruel prove, When blooming years and beauty bid thee love? If none but equal Charms thy heart can bind, Then to thy self alone thou must be kind. Yet worthless as I am, there was a time When Phaon thought me worthy his Esteem. A thousand tender things to mind I call, For they who truly Love remember all. Delighted with the Musick of my Tongue, Upon my words with silent Joy he hung, And snatching Kisses, stop'd me as I sung. Kisses, whose melting touch, his Soul did move, The earnest of the coming joyes of Love. Then tender words, short sighs, & thousand charms Of wanton Arts endear'd me to his Arms; Till both expiring with tumultuous Joys, A gentle faintness did our Limbs surprize. Beware, Sicilian Ladies, Ah! beware How you receive my faithless Wanderer. You too will be abus'd, if you believe The flattering words that he so well can give. Loose to the Winds I let my flowing Hair, No more with fragrant scents perfume the Air, But all my Dress discovers wild Despair. For whom alas! should now my Art be shown? The only Man I car'd to please is gone. Oh let me once more see those Eyes of thine, Thy Love I ask not, do but suffer mine. Thou might'st at least have ta'ne thy last farewel, And feign'd a sorrow which thou didst not feel. No kind remembring Pledge was ask'd by thee, And nothing left but Injuries with me. Witness ye Gods, with what a Death-like cold My heart was seiz'd when first thy flight was told. Speechless and stupid for a while I lay, And neither words, nor tears could find their way. But when my swelling Passion forc'd a vent, With Hair dishevel'd, Clothes in pieces rent; Like some sad Mother through the Streets I run, Who to his Grave attends her only Son. Expos'd to all the World my self I see, Forgetting Vertue, Fame, and all but thee; So ill alas! do Love and Shame agree! 'Tis thou alone that art my constant care, In pleasing Dreams thou comfort'st my Despair; And mak'st the night, that does thy form convey, Welcome to me above the fairest day. Then 'spight of absence I thy Love enjoy, In close embraces lockt, methinks, we lye; Thy tender words I hear, thy Kisses feel, With all the Joys that shame forbids to tell. But when I waking miss thee from my bed, And all my pleasing Images are fled; The dear deluding Vision to retain, I lay me down, and try to sleep again. Soon as I rise, I haunt the Caves and Groves (Those conscious scenes of our once happy loves) There like some frantick Bacchanal I walk, And to my self with sad distraction talk. Then big with grief I throw me on the ground, And view the melancholy Grotto round; Whose hanging roof of Moss and craggy Stone Delights my eyes above the brightest Throne. But when I spy the bank, whose grassy bed Retains the print our weary bodies made, On thy forsaken side I lay me down, And with a shower of tears the place I drown. The Trees are wither'd all since thou art gone, As if for thee they put their Mourning on. No warbling Bird does now with Musick fill The Woods, except the mournful Philomel. With hers my dismal Notes all night agree, Of Tereus she complains, and I of thee. Ungentle Youth! did'st thou but see me mourn, Hard as thou art, thou would'st, thou would'st return. My constant falling tears the Paper stain, And my weak hand can scarce direct my Pen. Oh could thy eyes but reach my dreadful slate, As now I stand prepar'd for sudden Fate, Thou couldst not see this naked breast of mine Dasht against Rocks, rather than joyn'd to thine. Peace, Sapho, peace! thou send'st thy fruitless crys To one more hard than rocks, more deaf than seas. The flying Winds bear thy Complaints away, But none will ever back his Sails convey. No longer then thy hopeless Love attend, But let thy Life here with thy Letter end.

CANACE to MACAREUS: BY Mr. DRYDEN. The ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace Son and Daughter to Aeolus, God of the Winds, lov'd each other Incestuously: Canace was delivered of a Son, and committed him to her Nurse, to be secretly convey'd away. The Infant crying out, by that means was discover'd to Aeolus▪ who inrag'd at the wickedness of his Children, commanded the Babe to be expos'd to Wild Beasts on the Mountains: and, withal, sent a Sword to Canace, with this Message, That her Crimes would instruct her how to use it. With this Sword she slew her self: but before she died, she writ the following Letter to her Brother Macareus, who had taken Sanctuary in the Temple of Apollo.

IF streaming blood my fatal Letter stain, Imagine, er'e you read, the Writer slain: One hand the Sword, and one the Pen employs, And in my lap the ready paper lyes. Think in this posture thou behold'st me Write: In this my cruel Father wou'd delight. O were he present, that his eyes and hands Might see & urge the death which he commands, Than all his raging Winds more dreadful, he Unmov'd, without a tear, my wounds wou'd see. iove justly plac'd him on a stormy Throne, His Peoples temper is so like his own. The North and South, and each contending blast Are underneath his wide Dominion cast: Those he can rule; but his tempestuous mind Is, like his airy Kingdom, unconfin'd. Ah! what avail my Kindred Gods above, That in their number I can reckon iove! What help will all my heav'nly friends afford, When to my breast I lift the pointed Sword? That hour which joyn'd us came before its time, In death we had been one without a crime: Why did thy flames beyond a Brothers move? Why lov'd I thee with more than Sisters love? For I lov'd too; and knowing not my wound, A secret pleasure in thy Kisses found: My Cheeks no longer did their colour boast, My Food grew loathsom, and my strength I lost: Still er'e I spoke, a sigh wou'd stop my tongue; Short were my slumbers, & my nights were long. I knew not from my love these griefs did grow, Yet was, alas, the thing I did not know. My wily Nurse by long experience found, And first discover'd to my Soul its wound. 'Tis Love, said she; and then my down-cast eyes, And guilty dumbness, witness'd my surprize. Forc'd at the last, my shameful pain I tell: And, oh, what follow'd we both know too well! 'When half denying, more than half content, 'Embraces warm'd me to a full consent: Then with Tumultuous Joyes my Heart did beat, And guilt that made them anxious, made them great. But now my swelling womb heav'd up my breast, And rising weight my sinking Limbs opprest. What Herbs, what Plants, did not my Nurse produce To make Abortion by their pow'rful Juice? What Medicines try'd we not to thee unknown? Our first crime common; this was mine alone. But the strong Child, secure in his dark Cell, With Natures vigour did our arts repell. And now the pale-fac'd Empress of the Night Nine times had fill'd her Orb with borrow'd light: Not knowing 'twas my Labour, I complain Of sudden shootings, and of grinding pain: My throws came thicker, and my cryes increast, Which with her hand the conscious Nurse supprest: To that unhappy fortune was I come, Pain urg'd my clamours; but fear kept me dumb. With inward struggling I restrain'd my cries; And drunk the tears that trickled from my eyes. Death was in sight, Lucina gave no aid; And ev'n my dying had my guilt betray'd. Thou cam'st; and in thy Count'nance sate Despair: Rent were thy Garments all, and torn thy Hair: Yet, feigning comfort which thou cou'dst not give, (Prest in thy Arms, and whisp'ring me to live) For both our sakes, (said'st thou) preserve thy life; Live, my dear Sister, and my dearer Wife. Rais'd by that name, with my last pangs I strove: Such pow'r have words, when spoke by those we love. The Babe, as if he heard what thou hadst sworn, With hasty joy sprung forward to be born. What helps it to have weather'd out one Storm? Fear of our Father does another form. High in his Hall, rock'd in a Chair of State, The King with his tempestuous Council sate: Through this large Room our only passage lay, By which we cou'd the new-born Babe convey. Swath'd, in her lap, the bold Nurse bore him out; With Olive branches cover'd round about: And, mutt'ring pray'rs, as holy Rites she meant, Through the divided Crowd, unquestion'd, went. Just at the door th' unhappy Infant cry'd: The Grandsire heard him, and the theft he spy'd. Swift as a Whirl-wind to the Nurse he flyes; And deafs his stormy Subjects with his cries. With one fierce puff, he blows the leaves away: Expos'd the self-discover'd Infant lay. • he noise reach'd me, and my presaging mind • oo soon its own approaching woes divin'd. Not Ships at Sea with winds are shaken more, Nor Seas themselves, when angry Tempests roar Than I, when my loud Fathers voice I hear: The Bed beneath me trembled with my fear. He rush'd upon me, and divulg'd my stain; Scarce from my Murther cou'd his hands refrain. I only answer'd him with silent tears; They flow'd; my tongue was frozen up with fears His little Grandchild he commands away, To Mountain Wolves, and every Bird of prey. The Babe cry'd out, as if he understood, And beg'd his pardon with what voice he cou'd. By what expressions can my grief be shown? (Yet you may guess my anguish by your own) To see my bowels, and what yet was worse, Your bowels too, condemn'd to such a Curse! Out went the King; my voice its freedom found, My breasts I beat, my blubber'd Cheeks I wound. And now appear'd the Messenger of death, Sad were his Looks, and scarce he drew his Breath, To say, Your Father sends you—(with that word His trembling hands presented me a Sword:) Your Father sends you this: and lets you know That your own Crimes the use of it will show. Too well I know the sence those words impart: His Present shall be treasur'd in my heart. Are these the Nuptial Gifts a Bride receives? And this the fatal Dow'r a Father gives? Thou God of Marriage shun thy own disgrace; And take thy Torch from this detested place: • nstead of that, let Furies light their brands; • nd Fire my pile with their infernal hands. With happier fortune may my Sisters wed; • arn'd by the dire Example of the dead. For thee, poor Babe, what Crime cou'd they pretend? How cou'd thy Infant innocence offend? A guilt there was; but oh that guilt was mine! Thou suffer'st for a sin that was not thine. Thy Mothers grief and Crime! but just enjoy'd, Shown to my sight, and born to be destroy'd! Unhappy Off-spring of my teeming Womb! Drag'd head-long from thy Cradle to thy Tomb! Thy unoffending life I could not save, Nor weeping cou'd I follow to thy Grave! Nor on thy Tomb cou'd offer my shorn Hair; Nor show the grief which tender Mothers bear. Yet long thou shalt not from my Arms be lost, For soon I will o're-take thy Infant Ghost. But thou, my Love, and now my Love's Despair, Perform his Funerals with paternal care. • is scatter'd Limbs with my dead body burn; • nd once more joyn us in the pious Urn. • f on my wounded breast thou drop'st a tear, • hink for whose sake my breast that wound did bear; • nd faithfully my last desires fulfill, • s I perform my cruel Fathers will.

PHILLIS to DEMOPHOON: BY Mr. ED. POLEY. The ARGUMENT.

Demophoon who was Son to Theseus and Phaedra, in returning from the Trojan War into his own Country, was by a Tempest driven upon the Coasts of Thrace; where Phillis, who was then Queen of Thrace, entertained him, and Marryed him. When he had staid with her some time, he heard that Menestheus was dead (who after he had Conquer'd Theseus, had Vsurp'd the Government of Athens) and under pretence of setling his own Affairs, he went to Athens, and promised the Queen, that he would come back again in a Mo • th. When he had been gone four Months, and that she had heard no News of him, she writes him this Letter.

YOu've gone beyond your time, and ought to give▪ So kind a Wife as Phillis leave to grieve. You promis'd me you would no longer stay, Then till the first full Moon should light your way. Thrice did it since its borrow'd light renew, And thrice has chang'd, but not so much as you. Did you the Daies, and Hours, and Minutes tell, As Phillis does, and they that love so well, You'd say, 'twere time to weep; your sorrows too Would justifie those Tears she sheds for you. Still did I hope, and thought you'd still be here; We hardly can believe those things we fear, Now 'tis too plain, and spight of Love and you, • must both fear it, and believe it too. • ow oft did I deceive my self, and swore, • saw your Ship just making to the Shore? • hen Curs'd those Friends I thought had caus'd your stay, • ould you were half so innocent as they. •• metimes I fear'd, by foaming billows • ost, • ou might be Shipwrack'd while you sought the Coast; And griev'd t'have injur'd whom I thought so true, I beg'd that pardon, I'd refus'd to you. Then, cruel Man! did I the Gods Implore To let you live, though I ne're saw you more. When I a favourable Gale espy'd, He comes, if he's alive, he comes, I cry'd. And thus my love still sought some new pretence, And I grew Eloquent in your defence. Yet thou avoid'st me still, nor do I see Those promises thou mad'st to Heaven and me. 'But thy false Vows, alas! were all but Wind, 'Thy vows and wishes made the gale more kind; 'They • ill'd your Sails, and you were forc'd away, 'By the same wishes, which you made to stay. What have I done, but lov'd to an excess? You'd not been guilty had I lov'd you l • ss. My only Crime is, loving you too well, But sure some Merit in that Crime does dwell. Where's now your Faith? and where's the Love you bore? Where are the Gods by whom you falsly swore? Where's Hymen too, who joyn'd our tender years? • e bid me Love, and banish'd all my Fears. • ou swore by th' swelling billows of the Main, • hich oft you'd tried, and would yet trust again, • ather than stay with me, though much more kind, • nd constant too, than are the Seas or Wind. • ou swore by th' Mighty Ruler of the Flood, • he heav'nly Author of your Royal Blood; If er'e a God had any thing to do 〈◊〉 one so • alse, and so unkind as you. • ou swore by Venus, and the fatal steel • f those proud Darts, which too too much I feel; • nd by great Iuno, whose resistless Art • ave thee my Hand, when I had giv'n my Heart. Thou swor'st so much, that if each God should be Just, to revenge his injur'd self and me; Such numerous mischiefs on thy head would fall, Thou'dst not have room enough to bear them all. Distracted I, as if I'ad fear'd your stay, Repair'd your Ships to hurry you away. What haste you wanted, my curs'd care supply'd, Oars to your Sails, and Current to your Tide. Thus was I falsly by my self betray'd, And perish by the wounds my hands have made. I foolishly believ'd all th' Oaths you swore, The Race you boasted, and the Gods you bore. Who could have thought such gentle words er'e hung Upon a treacherous, deluding Tongue? I saw your tears, and I believ'd them all, Can they lye too, and are they taught to fall? What needed all that numerous Perjury? One was enough to her that lov'd like me. I'me not asham'd I did your Ships receive, And your own wants did carefully relieve; Those Debts I ought you on a nobler score, But then, 'tis true, I should have done no more. All I repent, is that I basely strove T'increase your welcom by a Nuptial Love. That night that usher'd in th'unhappy day, Which did me to your guilty Love betray; I wish that fatal Night had been my last; Then I had died, but then I had been Chast. • hop'd you were, 'cause I deserv'd you, True, • s it a Crime to wish what is our due? Tis sure no mighty Glory to deceive • tender Maid, so willing to believe. • y weakness does but heighten your offenc • , • ou kindly should have spar'd my innocence. • ou've gain'd a Maid that lov'd you, and may't be • our greatest Prise, and only Victory. May your proud Statue rais'd by this success, Shame your great Father, 'cause his Crimes were less. And when late story shall of Tyrants tell, And by whom Scyron, and Procrustes fell; The Centaurs flight, the Thebans Over-throw, Who 'twas durst force the dismal Shades below; Then for your Honour shall at last be said, Here's He, who by a wretched wile betray'd A Loving, Innocent, Believing Maid. Of all those Acts we in your Father knew, His Treachery alone remains in you. What only can excuse the Ills you do, You both Inherit, and Admire it too. He Ariadne did betray, but she Enjoys a Husband mightier far than He. But the scorn'd Thracians my Embraces shun, 'Cause I from them into thy Arms did run. Let her, they cry, to learned Greece be gone, We'll find a Monarch to supply the Throne. Thus all we do depends on an ill Fate, Which does for ever on th'unhappy wait; But may that Fate all his best thoughts attend, Who Judges others Actions by the end. For should'st thou ever bless these Seas again, They'd praise that Love, of which they now complain. Then would they say, What could she better do Both for her self, and for her Kingdom too? But I have err'd, and thou'rt for ever fled, Forget'st my Empire, and forget'st my Bed. Methinks, I see thee still, Demophoon, Thy Sails all hoisted, ready to be gone. When boldly thou didst my soft Limbs embrace, And with long Kisses dwelt'st upon my Face; Drown'd in my Tears, and in your own you lay, And curs'd the Winds that hastn'd you away. Then parting cry'd (methinks I hear thee still) Phillis I'll come, you may be sure I will. Can I expect that thou'lt er'e see this Shore, Who leftst it that thou ne're mightst see me more? And yet I beg you'd come too, that you may Be only guilty in too long a stay. What do I ask? thou by new Charms possess'd, Forget'st my kindness on another Breast; 'And better to compleat the Treachery, 'Swear'st all those Oaths, which thou hast broke to me. And hast (false Man) perhaps forgot my Name, And ask'st too, who I am, and whence I came? But that thou better maist remember me, Know, thou ungrateful man, that, I am she, Who when thou'dst wander'd all the Ocean or'e, Harbour'd thy Ships, and welcom'd thee to Shore. Thy Coffers still replenish'd from my own, And to that height a Prodigal was grown, I gave thee all thou ask'dst, and gave so fast, I gave my self into thy power at last; I gave my Scepter, and my Crown to Thee, A weight too heavy to be born by me. Where Haemus does his shady head display, And gentle Heber cuts his Sacred way, So great's the Empire, and so wide the Land, Scarce to be govern'd by a Womans hand, She whom Fate would not suffer to be chast, Whose Nupt'als with a Fun'ral Pomp were grac'd; Shril cries disturb'd us midst our swiftest joyes, And our drawn curtains trembled with the noise, Then close to thee I clung, all drown'd in tears, And sought my shelter where I'd found my fears. And now while others drown their care in sleep, • run toth' barren Shore, and Rocks to weep, And view with longing eyes the spac'ous Deep, All Day and Night I the winds course survey, Impatient till I find it blows this way, And when afar, a coming Sail I view, I thank my Stars, and I conclude 'tis you. Then with strange hast I run my Love to meet, Nor can the flowing Waters stop my Feet. When near, I grow more fearful than before, A suddain trembling seizes me all or'e. And leaves my body breathless on the Shore. Hard by, where two huge Mountains guard the way, There lies a fearful, solitary Bay. Oft I've resolv'd, while on this place I've stood, To throw my self into the raging Flood, Wild with Despair, and I will do it still, Since you continue thus to use me ill. And when the kinder Waves shall waft me or'e, May'st thou behold my Body on the Shore Unburied lie; and though thy Cruelty Harder than Stone, or than thy self should be, Yet shalt thou cry, astonish'd with the show, Phillis, I was not to be follow'd so. Raging with Poisons would I oft expire, And quench my own by a much happier Fire. Then to revenge the loss of all my Rest, Would stab thy Image in my tortur'd Breast. Or by a Knot (more welcom far to me Than that, false Man, which I have tyed with thee,) Strangle that Neck, where those false Arms of thine With treach'rous kindness us'd so oft to twine. And as becomes a poor unhappy Wife, Repair my ruin'd Honour with my Life. When we can once with our hard Fate comply, 'Tis easie then to chuse the way to die. Then on my Tomb shall the proud Cause be read, And thy sad Crime still live, when I am dead! Poor Phillis dy'd, by him she lov'd oppress'd, The truest Mistriss, by the falsest Guest. He was the cruel cause of all her woe, But her own hand perform'd the fatal Blow.

HYPERMNESTRA TO LINUS. BY Mr. WRIGHT. The ARGUMENT.

Danaus, King of Argos, had by several Wives Fifty Daughters, his Brother Aegiptus as many Sons. Danaus refusing to Marry his D • ughters to his Brothers Sons, was at last compelled by an Army. In revenge, he commands his Daughters each to Murder her Husband on the Wedding Night. All obeyd but Hypermnestra, who assisted her Husband Linus to escape, for which being afterwards imprisoned and put in Irons, she writes this Epistle.

To that dear Brother who alone survives lives, Of Fifty, late, whose love betray'd their Writes she that suffers in her Lords defence; Unhappy Wife whose Crime's her Innocence! For saving him I lov'd, I'me guilty call'd: Had I been truly so, I'de been extoll'd. Let me be guilty still, since this they say Is Guilt, I glory thus to disobey. Torments nor Death shall draw me to repent: Though against me they use that Instrument From which I sav'd a Husbands dearer life, And with one Sword kill Linus in his Wife; Yet will I ne're repent for b • ing true, Or blush t'have lov'd: that let my Sisters do: Such shame, and such repentance is their due. I'm seiz'd with terror while I but relate, And shun remembrance of a Crime I hate▪ The frightful memory of that dire night En • rvates so my hand I scarce can write. How er'e I'le try. With Ceremony gay, Just at the fall of Night, and rise of Day, The wicked Sisters were in triumph led, And I among 'em, to the Nuptial Bed. The Marriage Lights as funeral Lamps appear, And threatning Omens met us every where. Hymen they call: Hymen neglects their Cryes: Nay Iuno too from her own Argos flyes. Now come the Bridegrooms, high with wine, to find Something with us more lov'd than Wine, behind. • ull of impatient Love, careless, and brave, • hey seize the Bed, not seeing there a Grave. What follow'd shame forbids me to express; • ut who so ignorant as not to guess? • ow their tyr'd Senses they to sleep commit, • sleep as still as Death; ah, too like it! •• was then methought I heard their groans that dyed; • las! 'twas more than thought! I terrified • ay trembling, cold, and without power to move, 〈◊〉 that dear Bed which you had made me love. While you in the soft Bonds of Sleep lay fast, Charm • d with the joys of love, then newly past: Fearing to disobey, I rise at last. Witness sweet heavens, how tender was the strife Betwixt the name of Daughter and a Wife. Thrice o're your breast, which did so lately joyn In such an Extasie of love to mine, I rais'd the pointed Steel to pierce that part, But ah! th'attempt strook nearer my own heart. My Soul divided thus, these words, among A thousand sighs, fell softly from my tongue. 'Dost thou not heed a Fathers awful will? 'Dost thou not fear his power? On then, and kill▪ 'How can I kill when I consider who? 'Can I think death? against a Lover too? 'What has my Sex with Blood and Arms to do? 'Fye, thou art now by Love to Shame betray'd: 'Thy Sister-Brides by this have all obey'd. 'With Shame their Courage and their Duty see: 'If not a Daughter, yet a Sister be. 'No, I will never strike: If one must dye 'Linus shall live, and my death his supply. 'What has he done, or I, what greater ill? 'For him to dye, and I, much worse, to kill? 'Were he as guilty as my Father wou'd 'Present him, why must I be stain'd with bloud? 'Poinards and Swords ill with my Sex agree: 'Soft Looks, and Sighs of Love, our weapons be. As I lamented thus, the tears apace Dropt from my pitying eyes, on thy lov'd face. While you, with kind & amorous Dreams possest, Threw carelesly your dear arm o're my breast, There thinking to repeat Joys lately known, Your hand upon my Sword was almost thrown. 'Twas time to call, nor longer I forbore, Dreading the Days approach, my Fathers more. Wake Linus, wake, I cry'd; O quickly wake, Or sleep for ever here; Th'alarm you take, Start up: ask twenty questions in one breath: To all I answer thus—Delay is death; Fly while 'tis dark, and scape eternal night. While it was dark you made a happy flight: I stay'd to meet the terrors of the Light. With day my Father comes, the dead to view; And finds the dismal Sum one short, by you. Enrag'd to see his treachery betray'd, By his command I'me thus in Fetters laid. Is this reward due to my Love from Fate? Ah, wretched flame! Passion unfortunate! Since Iö suffer'd under Iuno's Rage, Nothing that Rival'd Goddess can asswage. Th'unhappy Mistress of the mighty Iove Chang'd to a Cow, a form un • pt for Love, Views in her Fathers streams her heads array, Sees her own horns, and frighted, starts away. When she wou'd speak, she lows: and equal • ears From her own self surprize her eyes and ears. In vain to loose the frightful shape she tries, For Iö follows still where Iö flies. In vain she wanders over Lands and S • as; Can she find Cure whose self is the Disease? Sadly severe the change in her appear'd, Whose Beauty Iove and lov'd, and Iuno fear'd. Grass and the Springs her food and drink supply; Her only Lodging's the unsheltring Sky. What need I urge Antiquity? my fate Is a fresh instance of the Goddess hate▪ A double stock of Tears by me are spilt Both for my Brothers death, and Sis • ers guilt. Yet, as if that were small, these Chains arrive, 'Cause I, alone, am guiltless, you alive. But, my dear Lord, if any thought you have Or of the Love, or of the life I gave: If any memory with you does last. Or of the Pleasures, or the Dangers past, Now, Linus, now some help to her afford Who wants the Liberty she gave her Lord. If life forsake me e're I you can see, And death, before my Linus, set me free, Yet my unhappy Earth from hence remove; And give those Obsequies are due to Love. When I'me inter'd I know some tears will fall: Then let this little Epitaph be all. Here lies a Love Compleat, tho hapless wife, Who catch't the Death aim'd at her husbands life. Here I must rest my hand, tho much remains, 'Tis quite disabled with the weight of Chains.

ARIADNE TO THESEUS. The ARGUMENT.

Minos, King of Creet, by a sharp Warr, compell'd the Athenians, (who had treacherously slain his Son Androgeos,) to send yearly seaven young men, and as many Virgins to be devour'd by the Minotaure; a Monster begotten by a Bull upon his wife Pasiphae, while he was engaged in that Warr. The Chance at last fell up on Theseus to be sent among those youths; who, by the Instructions of Ariadne, escaped out of the Labyrinth, after he had kill'd the Minotaure, and, together with her, fled to the Isle of Naxos. But, being commanded by Bacchus, he forsook her, while she slept. When she awaked and found herself deserted, she writes this Letter.

THan savage Beasts more fierce, more to be feard; Expos'd by Thee, by Them I yet am spar'd! These Lines from that unhappy Shore I write Where you forsook me in your faithless flight; And the most tender Lover did betray, While lock'd in sleep, and in your Arms she lay. When Morning-dew on all the Fields did fall, And Birds with early Songs for day did call; Then I, half sleeping, stretch'd me tow'rds your place, And sought to press you with a new embrace: Oft sought to press you close, but still in vain; My folding Arms came empty back again. Startled, I rose, and found that you were gone, Then on my widow'd Bed fell raging down: Beat the fond Breast, where, spight of me, you dwell, And tore that hair, wh • ch you once lik'd so well. • y the Moons light I the wide Shore did view, 〈◊〉 • ll was Desart, and no sight of you. Then every way, with Loves mad hast I fly, But ill my feet with my desires comply; Weary they sink in the deep yielding Sands, Refusing to obey such wild Commands. To all the shore of Theseus I complain, The Hills and Rocks send back that Name again. Oft they repeat aloud the mournful noise, And kindly aid a hoarse and dying voice. Tho faint yet still impatient, next I try To climb a rough steep Mountain which was nigh: (My furious Love unusual strength supply'd:) From thence, casting my eyes on every • ide, • ar off the flying Vessel I espy'd. • n your swell'd Sayls the wanton winds did play; (They Court you since they see you false as they.) • saw, or fancy'd that I saw you there, And my chill Veins froze up with cold despair. Thus did I languish, till returning Rage In new extreams did my fir'd Soul engage. Theseus, I cry, perfidious Theseus stay! (But you are deaf, deaf as the Winds, or Sea!) Stay your false flight, and let your Vessel bear Hence the whole number which she landed here! In loud and doleful shrieks I tell the rest, And with fresh Fury wound my hated Breast. Then all my shining Ornaments I tear, And with stretch'd Arms wave them in open Air, That you might see her whom you could not hear. But when out of my sight the Vessel flew, And the Horizon shut me from the view; From my sad eyes, what floods of tears did fall! (Till then Rage would not let me weep at all.) Still let them weep, for, loosing sight of you, 'Tis the whole business which they ought to do. Like Bacchus raving Priests sometimes I go: With such wild hast, with hair dishevel'd so. Then on some craggy Rock sit silent down, As cold, unmov'd, and sensless as the Stone. To our once happy Bed I often fly: (No more the place of mutual Love and Joy.) See where my much lov'd Theseus once was laid, And kiss the print which his dear Body made. Here we both lay, I cry, false Bed restore My Theseus, kind and faithful as before, I brought him here, here lost him while I slept. How well, false Bed, you have my Lover k • pt! Alone and helpless in this Desert place The steps of Man, or Beast I cannot trace. On every side the foaming Billows beat, But no kind Ship does offer a retreat. And should the Gods send me some lucky Sail, • alm S • as, good Pilots, and a prosperous Gale▪ Yet then my Native Soil I durst not see, But a sad Exile must for ever be. From all • rete hundred Cities I am curst: From that fam'd Isle where Infant Iove was nurst. Crete I betray'd for you, and, what's more dear, Betray'd my Father, who that Crown does wear: When to your hands the fatal Clew I gave, Which through the winding Lab'rinth led you safe. Then how you lov'd, how eagerly embrac'd, How o • t you swore, by all your dangers past, That with my life your love should ever last! Ah, perjur'd Theseus, I thy love survive, If one forsaken and expos'd does live. Had you slain me, as you my Brother slew, You'ad then absolv'd your self from ev'ry Vow. Now both my present Grief denies me Rest, And all, that a wild Fancy can suggest 〈◊〉 •• ead • ul Ills to come, distracts my Br • ast. Before my eyes a thousand deaths appear, I live, yet suffer all the deaths I fear. Sometimes I think that Lyons there do go, And scarce dare trust my sight that 'tis not so. • magine that fierce Wolves are howling there, And at th' imagin'd Noise shrink up with fear. • hen think what Monsters from the Sea may rise, Or fancy bloudy Swords before my eyes. But most I dread to be a Captive made, • nd see these hands in servile works imploy'd. Unworthy my Extraction from a Line On one side Royal, and on both Divine: • nd, (which my Indignation more would move,) • nworthy her whom Theseus once did love. If tow'rds the Sea I look, or tow'rds the Land, • bjects of horror still before me stand. or dare I look tow'rds Heaven, or hope to find •• d from those Gods who chang'd my Theseus's mind. If Beasts alone within this Island stay, Behold me left to them a helpless Prey! If Men dwell here, they must be Savage too, This Soyl, this Heaven made gentle Theseus so. Would Athens never had my Brother slain, Nor for his paid so many lives again. Would thy strong Arm had never given the wound, Which struck the doubtful Monster to the ground▪ Nor I had given the guiding Thred to Thee, Which, to my own destruction, set Thee free. Let the unknowing World thy Conquest praise, It does not Ariad • es wonder raise: So hard a Heart, unarm'd, might safely scorn The strength and sharpness of the Monsters horn 〈◊〉 Flint or Steel could be secure of wound, No room for fear could in that Breast be found. C • rst be the sleep which seal'd these eyes so fast 〈◊〉 , that begun, it did not ever last! For ever curst be that officious Wind, Which fill'd thy Sayls, and in my ruin joyn'd! Curst hand which me, and which my Brother kill'd! (With what Misfortunes our sad House 't has fill'd!) And curst the Tongue, which, with soft words, betray'd, And empty Vows, a poor believing Maid! Sleep, and the Winds against me had combin'd In vain, if perjur'd Theseus had not joyn'd. Poor Ariadne, thou must perish here, Breath out thy Soul in strange and hated Air, Nor see thy pittying Mother shed one Tear: Want a kind hand which thy fix'd eyes may close, And thy stiff Limbs may decently compose. Thy Carcass to the Birds must be a Prey. Thus Theseus all thy Kindness does repay! Mean while to Athens your swift Ship does run; There tell the wondring Crowd what you have done. How the mix'd Prodigy you did subdue, The Beast and Man how with one stroke you slew. Describe the Labyrinth, and how, taught by me, You scap'd from all those perplext Mazes free. Tell, in return, what generous things you've done: Such Gratitude will all your Triumphs Crown! Sprung sure from Rocks, and not of human Race! Thy Cruelty does thy great Line disgrace. Yet couldst thou see, as barbarous as thou art, These dismal looks, sure they would touch thy heart. You cannot see, yet think you saw me now Fix'd to some Rock, as if I there did grow, And trembling at the Waves which roul below. Look on my torn, and my disordred hairs, Look on my Rob • wet through with show'rs of tears. With the cold blasts see my wole body shakes, And my numm'd hand unequal Letters makes. I do not urge my hated Merit now, But yield, this once, that you do nothing ow. I neither sav'd your Life, nor set you free; Yet therefore must you force this death on Me? Ah! see this wounded Breast worn out with sighs, And these faint Arms stretch'd to the seas & ski • s. See these few hairs yet spar'd by Grief and Rage, Some Pitty let these flowing Tears engage. Turn back, and, if I'me dead when you return, Yet lay my Ashes in their peaceful Urn.

HERMIONE TO ORESTES. The ARGUMENT.

Hermione, the Daughter of Menelaus and Helena, was by Tyndarus her Grandfather (to whom Menelaus had committed the government of his House when he went to Troy) contracted to Orestes. Her Father Menelaus, not knowing thereof, had betroth'd her to Pyrrhus▪ the Son of Achilles, who returning from the Trojan Wars, stole her away. Whereupon she writes to Orestes as follows.

THis, dear Orestes, this with health to you, From her that was your Wife & Cosin too; Your Cosin still, but oh! that dearer Name Of Wife another now does falsly claim. What Woman can, I have already done, yet I'm confin'd by rough Achilles's Son. With much of Pain, and all the Art I knew, I strove to shun him, yet all wou'd not do. Stand off said I, foul Ravisher, take heed, My injur'd Husband will revenge this deed; Yet he more deaf then angry Tempests are, To his loath'd Chamber drag'd me by the hair. Had Troy still stood, had every Grecian Dame Become a Prey to th' haughty Victors flame, What cou'd I more have suffer'd then I do? Far more then poor Andromache e're knew. But oh my Dear! if, as I have for thee, Thou hast a tender care, or thought for me, Come bravely on, and as rob'd Tygers bold. Snatch me half murder'd from this Monsters hold Can you pursue each petty Rober's life, And yet thus tamely loose a Ravish't wife? Think how my Father Menelaus rag'd For his lost Q • een, think what a War he wag'd, When pow'rful Greece was in his Cause engag'd. Had he sat quietly, and nothing try'd, As once she was, she'd still been Paris Bride. Prepare no Fleet, you will no Forces need, By you, and only you, I wou'd be free'd. Not but wrong'd Marriage is a Cause alone Sufficient for th' ingaging World to own. Sprung from the Royal Pelopean line, You are no less by Blood then Marriage mine. These double Ties a double Love perswade, And each sufficient to deserve your Aid. I to your Arms was by my Guardian given, The only Bliss I wou'd have beg'd from Heaven. But that unknown (O my unhappy Fate!) My Father gave me to the Man I hate. Just were those Infant Vows to you I made, But this last Act had all those Vows betray'd. Too well he knows what 'tis to be in Love, How can he then my Passion disapprove? Since Love himself has felt, he will, nay must Allow this Passion in his Daughter just. My Fate resembles my wrong'd Father's Case, And Pyrrhus is that Thief that Paris was. Let my proud Goaler the brave deeds run o're, Count all the Laurels his great Parents wore, Whate're his cou'd, yours greater did, & more. Let him claim Kindred with some God above, You are descended from the Mighty Iove. Brave as you are, I wish 'twere understood By something else, then by Aegysthus Blood; Yet you are innocent, Fate drew the Sword, And a religious Duty gave the word. With this the Tyrant does my Lord disgrace, And what's still worse, dares do it to my Face: Whilst burst with Envy, I am forc'd to be Rack't, and tormented with his Blasphemy. Shall my Orestes be abus'd, and I As one that's unconcer'nd sit careless by? No, though disabled, and of Arms bereft, Yet as a Woman, I have one way left, Tears I can shed, such as will yield relief To my sick Mind, choakt with excess of grief; For when the big-charg'd Storm hath lost its power, It sighs it self into a silent showre. This I can do, whilst by each other prest The dewy Pearls run • rickling o're my breast. But how shou'd I this fatal woe escape? All our whole Race was subject to a Rape: I need not tell, how in soft Feathers drest, The wanton God his softer Nymph possest; How through the deep in unknown ships convey'd Hippodame was from her Friends betray'd; How the fair Tyndaris by force detain'd, By th' Amyclaean brethren was regain'd. How afterwards by all the Grecian Power She was brought back from the Idaean shore. I scarce remember that sad day, and yet, Young as I was, I do remember it. Her Brothers wept, her Sister to remove Her Fears, call'd on the Gods, and her own Iove. Mother, said I, in a weak mournful Tone, Will you be gone, and leave me here alone? When you are gone, why shou'd I stay behind? All this I spoke, but spoke it to the wind. Now like the rest of my curst Pedigree, By this loath'd Wretch I am detain'd from Thee. The brave Achilles wou'd have blam'd his Son, Nor, had he liv'd, wou'd this have e're been done. He ne're had thought it lawful to divide Those two, whom Marriage had so firmly ty'd. What is't, ye Gods, that thus provokes your hate, Or what curs'd Star rules my unhappy Fate? Why am I plagu'd by your injurious power, Rob'd of my Parents in a tender hour? He to the war, she with her Lover • led, Though living both, yet both to me were dead. No babling words half fram'd upon thy tongue Lull'd me to soft repose when I was young. Your tender neck was ne're embrac't by me, Nor sat I ever smiling on your knee, You never tended me, nor was I led By thee (dear Mother) to my Marriage-bed▪ At your return, I saw, but knew you not, So sure my Mothers Face I had forgot. I gaz'd, and gaz'd, but knew no Feature there, Yet though • 'twas you, 'cause so Divinely fair. Such was our Ignorance, even you alas! Ask'd your own Daughter, where your Daughter was Thou, my Orestes, wert my sole delight, Yet thee too I must loose, unless you fight. Pyrrhus withholds me from thy Arms, that's all Hermione has gain'd by Iliums fall. Soon as the early Harbinger of day Guilds the glad Orb with his Resplendent Ray; My Grief's made gentler by th'approaching light, And some pain seems to vanish with the night; But when a Darkness o're the Earth is spread, And I return all pensive to my Bed, Tears from my Eyes, as streams from Fountains flow, I shun this Husband, as I'd shun a Foe. Oft grown unmindful through distractive Cares, I've str • tcht my Arms, and toucht him unawares; Strait then I check the wandring Sense, and sly To the Bed's utmost limits, yet I lye Restless ev'n there, and think I'm still too nigh. Oft I for Pyrrhus have Orestes said, But blest the Error which my Tongue had made. Now by that Royal God whose Frown can make The Vassal Globe of his Creation shake, Th' Almighty Sire of our unhappy Race, And by the Scared Urn that does embrace Thy Father's dust, whose once loud blood may boast, Thou in repose hast laid his sleeping Ghost; I'le either live my dear Orestes's Wife, Or to untimely Fate resign my Life.

LEANDER TO HERO BY Mr. TATE. The ARGUMENT.

• eander accustomed nightly to swim over the Hellespont to visit Hero (Priestess of Venus Temple) being at last hinder'd by Storms from his wonted course, sends her the following Epistle.

REceive this Letter from Leander, fraught With Service, which he rather would have brought. Read with a smile,—and yet, if thou wouldst crown My wiser wishes, read them with a frown. That Anger from thy Kindness will proceed, 'Cause of Leander thou canst only read. The Seas rage high, and scarce could we prevail With the most daring Mariner to fail. Embarqu'd at last, and sculking in the Hold, My stealth is to my jealous Parents told, As much too tim'rous they, as I too bold, I writ, since writing was my sole relief, And or'e the dewy sheets thus breath'd my grief. Blest Letter, go, my tenderest thoughts convey To her warm Lip thy Signets she will lay; And with a Kiss dissolve thy Seals away. Sev'n tedious nights guiltless of sleep I've stood, Sigh'd with the winds, and murmur'd with the flood; Then climbing th' outmost Clifts her Coast to view, My Tears, like Glasses, th' Object nearer drew: By th'adverse winds and waves detain'd on shore, My thoughts run all our former Pleasures ore, And in soft Scenes of Fancy re-enjoy The bliss that did our Infant Loves imploy. 'Twas night (a Curse on the Impert'nent light That pry'd & marr'd the Pleasures of that night) When first I swam the Ford; while Cynthia's beams look'd pale, and trembled for me in the streams. My drooping Arms, in hopes they shall at length Embrace thy neck, feel fresh supplies of strength. The wondring Waves to their new Fury yield, Not Tryton's faster plow the liquid Field. Soon on the Temples Spire your Torch I spy'd, Fixt like a Star my watry Course to guide; Which Planet-like, shoots vigour through my veins; The warmth of my Immortal Love sustains • n the cold Flood, Lifes perishing remains. But now the gentlest Star that blest my way, Your bright self on the Turret I survey. Then with redoubled strokes the Waves divide, And by my Hero am at last descry'd: Scarce could your careful Confident restrain, But you would plunge, and meet me in the Main • And made so far your kind Endeavours good, That Ankle deep on the Fords brink you stood; And seem'd the new ris'n Venus of the Flood. The shore now gain'd, to your dear Arms I flew, All dropping as I was with briny Dew; Nor prov'd for that a more unwelcome Guest; Your warm lip to my bloodless cheek you prest, Nor felt my Locks distilling on your Breast. Your hasty Robes are o're my shoulders thrown, To shroud my shivering Limbs you stript your own • Forgetting how your too officious Care, Left Thee (my tend'rest part) expos'd to Air. The night, and we are conscious to the rest, Delights that ought not, cannot be exprest. We knew short space was to our pleasures set, And therefore lov'd not at the common rate. But th' utmost Fury of your Flames imploy'd, The Minutes flew less fast then we enjoy'd. With such dispatch that nights dear joys we wrought, To recollect would make an Age of thought. At length the sickning Stars began t'expire, And • with them am summon'd to retire. Con • us'dly then we our Love-task dispatcht, • en thousand kisses in a Minute snatcht. • our Women chid that I so long delay'd • ou prest me close, then askt me why I staid. • y stay you first reprov'd, and then my hast, • or cry'd Farewel; till you had claspt me fast. Day broke e're we our Am'rous strife could end, Then fighing I to the cold Beach descend. Trust me, the Sea from your dear Coasts seem steep, And all the way methinks I climb the deep. But when revisiting your shores, I seem Descending still, and rather fall then swim. I loath my Native Soil, and only prize That Region where my Loves dear Treasure lies. Why is not Sestos to Abydus joyn'd? Since we united are in heart and mind. The same our hopes, our fears, and our desires, Love is our Life, and one Love both inspires. But ah! what Mis'ries on that Love attend, Whose Joys on humerous Seas and Winds depend • I by their quarrel loose, forc't to delay My tender Visit, till they end the Fray. When first I crost the Gulph, the Dolphins gaz'd • The Sea-Nymphs fled, the Trytons were amaz'd But now no more I seem a Prodigy, But pass for an Inhabitant o'th' Sea. And since my passage is by Storms withstood, I'm nightly mist by th' Brothers of the Flood. Oft have I curst the tedious way, but oh! I wish in vain that tedious passage now. Yield me again, kind Floods, my tiresome way, 'Twas never half so tiresome as my Stay. Must then my Halcion Love all Winter sleep, And ne'r launch forth into a troubled Deep? Must I desist my Homage to perform, And sculk at home for ev'ry peevish Storm? If thus the Summer Gusts detain my course, How shall I through the Winter Surges force? Absence ev'n then I shall not long sustain, • ut boldly plunge into the raging Main: • nd if the swelling Floods not soon asswage, • le make my boasting good, and dare their rage. My ventrous scape shall in your Arms be blest, Or if I'm lost, my Anxious Love finds rest. The Waves at least will do my Corps the grace To waft it to my wonted landing place: Or of its own accord the Amorous Clay, Will thither float, nor loose so known a way! I guess your Kindness will ev'n then perform, To the cold Trunk, what you were wont when Warm; Your self dismantling you will shroud me ore, And grieve to find your Bosoms warmth no more Have power, my vital Spirits to restore. If this sad Fancy discompose thy Breast, Think 'twas but fancy, and resume thy rest. Invoke the Watry Pow'rs (thy Prayers are Charms) T'asswage the Storm, and yield me to thy Arms. But when to your dear Mansion I arrive, Loose ev'ry Wind, and let the Tempest drive. 'Twill give my stay pretence, nor can you chide, Whilst Thunder pleads so loudly on my side. 'Till then permit this Letter to supply The Author's place, and in thy Bosome lye. Lodg'd in thy Breast, my Passion 'twill impart, And whisper its soft Message to thy Heart.

HERO's ANSWER TO LEANDER. BY The Same Hand. WIth such delight I read your Letter o're, Your Presence only could have giv'n me more. Excuse my Passion if it soar above Your thought; no Man can judge of Womans love. With Bus'ness you, or Pleasures may sustain The Pangs of Absence, and divert the Pain. The Hills, the Vales, the Woods, and streams are stor'd With Game, and Profit with Delight afford. Whilst Gins for Beasts, & Snares for Fowl you set, You smile, and your own amorous Chains forget. Ten thousand helps besides effect your Cure, Whilst Womens sole Relief is to endure. Or, with my Confident I hold discourse, Debating what should interrupt your Course: Or viewing from aloft the troubled Tide, Mix in the Fray, and with the Tempest chide▪ Or in the Storms least Interval suspect Your stay, and almost charge you with neglect. I seek your footsteps on the Sands in vain, The Sands no more confess thee than the Main. I watch th' arriving Barks, and never fail T'enquire of you, and write by every Sail. Still as the setting Sun restores the Night, (The Light to me more welcom than▪ the Night,) I fix my flaming Torch to guide my Love, Nor shines there any friendlier Star above. Then with my Work or Book the time I cheat, And 'midst the Task Leander's Name repeat. My wedded Thoughts no other Theme pursue, I talk a hundred things—but all of you. What think'st thou, Nurse, does my Leander come? Or waits he till his Parents sleep at home? For he is forc't to steal his Passage there, As nightly we by stealth admit him here. Think'st Thou that now he strips him in the Bay, Or is already plung'd, and on his way? Whilst she poor Soul with tedious watching spent, Makes half Replies, and Nodding gives Assent. Yet cannot I the smallest pause allow, But cry, he is launch't forth for • ertain now. Then ev'ry Moment through the Window peep, With greedy Eyes examin all the Deep; And whisper to the Floods a tender Prayer In your behalf, as if I 'spy'd you there. Or to beguile my Griefs my Ear incline, And take each gentle Breezes Voice for Thine: At last surpriz'd with sleep in Dreams I gain That Bliss for which I wak't so long in vain. To shroud you then my shoulders I divest, And clasp you shivering to my warmer Breast; A Lover need not be inform'd the Rest. These Pleasures oft my slumb'ring thoughts imploy, But still th'are Dreams, and yield no solid Joy. Tho' ne're so lively the fruition be, To fill my Bliss I must have very Thee. At present I confess the Seas are rough, But were last Night compos'd, and calm enough▪ Why did you then my longing hopes delay? Why disappoint me with a total stay? Is it your Fear that makes my Wishes vain? When rougher, you have oft engag'd the Main; If it be Fear, that friendly Fear retain. Nor visit me till you securely may; Your danger would afflict me more than stay. Dread every Gust that blows, But oh! my Mind Misgives, least you prove various as that Wind. If e're you change, your Error secret keep, And in blest Ignorance permit me sleep. Not that I am inform'd y'are chang'd at all, But absent Lovers fear what e're may fall. Detain'd by th' Floods, your stay I will not blame; But less I dread the Floods than some new Flame. Be husht ye Winds, ye raging Billows sleep, And yield my Love safe passage through the deep. Blest sign, the Taper sparkles whilst I pray, A Guest i'th' Flame! Leander's on his way! Our Houshold Altar yields propitious signs, From which my Nurse your swift approach divines. The Crickets too of your arrival warn, And say our number shall increase e're Morn. Come gentle Youth, and with thy presence make, The glad Conjecture true; the Day will break, And marr our bliss, prevent the hastning Morn; To me and Loves forsaken Joys return. My Bed without Thee will afford no Rest, There is no Pillow like Leander's Breast. Dost thou suspect the time will be too short? Or want'st thou strength th'adventure to support? If this detain thee, Oh! no longer stay, I'le plunge and meet Thee in the Flood half way. Thus in the verdant Waves our Flames shall meet, And danger make the soft Embrace more sweet. Our Love's our own, which yet we take by stealth, Like Midnight Misers from their hidden Wealth. 'Twixt Decency, and Love unhappy made, Whilst Fame forbids what our Desires perswade. How art Thou nightly snatch't from me away? To dare the Flood when Saylers keep the Bay. Yet be advis'd thou Conqueror of the Tide, Nor in thy youthful Strength so much conside. Think not thine Arms can more than Oars prevail Nor dare to Swim when Pilots fear to Sail. With much Regret I cautiously perswade, And almost wish my Counsel disobey'd. Yet when to the rough Main my Eyes I turn, Methinks I never can enough forewarn. Nor does my last Nights Vision less affright, (Tho' expiated with many a Sacred Rite,) A sporting Dolphin, whilst the Flood retir'd, Lay hid i'th' Ooze, and on the Beach expir'd. What er'e the Dream portend, as yet reside In the safe Port, nor trust th' inconstant Tide. The Storm (too fierce to last) will soon decay, Then with redoubled speed redeem your stay. Till then, these sheets some pleasure may impart, They bring what most you prize, your Hero's heart.

LAODAMIA TO PROTESILAUS. BY THO. FLATMAN Esq The ARGUMENT.

Protesilaus lying Windbound at Aulis, in the Grecian Fleet, design'd for the • rojan War, his Wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to Him.

HEalth to the gentle Man of War, and may What Laodamia sends, the Gods convey. The Wind that still in Aulis holds my Dear, Why was it not so cross to keep Him here? Let the Wind raise an Hurricane at Sea, Were he but safe and warm ashore with me. Ten thousand kisses I had more to give him, Ten thousand cautions, and soft words to leave him: In hast he left me, summon'd by the Wind, (The Wind to barbarous Mariners only kind). The Seaman's pleasure, is the Lover's pain, (Protesilaus from my bosome tane!) As from my faultring tongue half speeches fell, (Scarce could I speak that wounding word Farewell, A merry Gale (at Sea they call it so) Fil'd every Sayl with joy, my breast with wo, There went my dear Protesilaus— While I could see Thee, full of eager paine, My greedy eyes epicuriz'd on Thine, When Thee no more, but thy spread Say • s I view, • look't, and lookt, till I had lost them too; But when nor Thee, nor them I could descry, And all was Sea that came within my ey, They say (for I have quite forgot) they say I strait grew pale, and fainted quite away; Compassionate Iphiclus, and the good old man▪ My Mother too to my assistance ran; In hast cold water on my face they threw, And brought me to my self with much ado, They meant it well, to me it seem'd not so, Much kinder had they been to let me go; My anguish with my Soul together came, And in my heart burst out the former flame: Since which, my uncomb'd locks unheeded flow Undrest, forlorn, I care not how I go; Inspir'd with wine, thus Bacchus frolique rout Stagger'd of old, and straggled all about. Put on, Put on, the happy Ladies say, Thy Royal Robes fair Laodamia. Alas! before Troy's Walls my Dear does lye, What pleasure can I take in Tyrian dy? Shall Curles adorn my head, an Helmet thine? •• in bright Tissues, thou in Armour shine? Rather with studied negligence I'le be • s ill, if not disguised worse than Thee. O Paris! rais'd by ruins! may'st thou prove • s fatal in thy War, as in thy Love! •• that the Grecian Dame had been less faire, • r thou less lovely hadst appear'd to Her! 〈◊〉 Menelaus! timely cease to strive, • ith how much blood wilt thou thy loss retrieve? • om me, ye Gods, avert your heavy doom, •• d bring my Dear, laden with Laurels home: • t my heart fails me, when I think of War, • e sad reflection costs me many a tear: • remble when I hear the very name • every place where thou shalt fight for fame; Besides th' adventurous Ravisher well knew The safest Arts his Villany to pursue; In noble dress he did her heart surprize, With gold he dazled her unguarded Eyes, He back't his Rape with Ships and armed Men, Thus storm'd, thus took the beauteous Fortress in. Against the power of Love and force of Arms There's no security in the brightest Charms. Hector I fear, much do I Hector fear, A man (they say) experienc'd in War, My Dear, if thou hast any love for me, Of that same Hector prithee mindful be, Fly him be sure, and every other Foe, Least each of them should prove an Hector too. Remember, when for fight thou shalt prepare, Thy Laodamia charge'd thee, Have a care, For what wounds thou receiv'st, are giv'n to her. If by thy valour Troy must ruin'd be, May not the ruin leave one scar on thee; Sharer in th' honour from the danger free! Let Menelaus fight, and force his way Through the false Ravisher's Troops to his Helena. Great be his Victory, as his Cause is good, May he swim to her in his Enemies blood, Thy Case is different,—may'st thou live to see (Dearest) no other Combatant but me! Ye generous Trojans, turn your Swords away • rom his dear Breast, find out a nobler prey, Why should you harmless Laodamia slay? My poor good natur'd Man did never know What'tis to fight, or how to face a Foe; • et in Love's Field what wonders can he do? • reat is his Prowess and his Fortune too; • et them go fight, who know not how to woo. Now I must own, I fear'd to let thee go, My trembling lips had almost told thee so. When from thy Father's House thou didst withdraw, Thy fatal stumble at the door I saw, I saw it, sigh'd, and pray'd the sign might be Of thy return a happy Prophecie! I cannot but acquaint thee with my fear, Be not too brave,—Remember,—Have a care, And all my dreads will vanish into Air. Among the Grecians some one must be found That first shall set his foot on Trojan ground; Unhappy she that shall his loss bewail, Grant, O ye Gods, thy courage then may fail. Of all the Ships, be thine the very last, Thou the last man that lands; there needs no haste • To meet a potent, and a treacherous foe; Thou'lt land I fear too soon, tho' ne're so slow. At thy return ply every Sail and Oar, And nimbly leap on thy deserted shore. All the day long, and all the lonely night Black thoughts of thee my anxious Soul affright▪ Darkness, to other womens pleasures kind, Augments, like Hell, the torments of my mind. I court e'en Dreams, on my forsaken Bed, false Joys must serve, since all my true are fled. What's that same aiery Phantom so like thee! What wailings do I hear, what paleness see? I wake, and hugg my self, 'its but a Dream— The Grecian Altars know I feed their flame, The want of hallow'd Wine my tears supply, Which make the sacred fire burn bright and high. When shall I clasp thee in these Arms of mine, These longing Arms, and lye dissolv'd in thine? When shall I have thee by thy self alone, To learn the wondrous Actions thou hast done? Which when in rapturous words thou hast begun With many, and many a kiss, prithee tell on, Such interruptions graceful pauses are, A Kiss in Story 's but an Halt in War. But, when I think of Troy, of winds and waves, I fear the pleasent dream my hope deceives: Contrary winds in Port detain thee too, In spite of wind and tide why wouldst thou go? Thus, to thy country thou wouldst hardly come, In spite of wind & tide thou went'st from home. To his own City Neptune stops the way, Revere the Omen, and the God's obey. Return ye furious Grecians, homeward fly, Your stay is not of Chance, but Destiny: How can your Arms expect desir'd success, That thus contend for an Adulteress? But, let not me forespeak you, no,—set Sail, And Heav'n befriend you with a prosperous gale; Ye Trojans! with regret methinks I see Your first encounter with your Enemy; I see fair Helen put on all her Charms, To buckle on her lusty Bridegroom's Arms; She gives him Arms, and kisses she receives, (I hate the transports each to other gives). She leads him forth, and she commands him come Safely victorious, and triumphant home, And he (no doubt) will make no nice delay, But diligently do whate're she say; Now he returns!—see with what amorous speed She takes the pond'rous Helmet from his head, And courts the weary Champion to her bed. We women, too too credulous alas! Think what we fear, will surely come to pass. Yet, while before the Leagure thou dost lye, Thy Picture is some pleasure to my Eye, That, I caress in words most kind and free, And lodge it on my Breast, as I would Thee; There must be something in It more than Art, 'Twere very Thee, could it thy mind impart; I kiss the pretty Idol, and complain, As if (like Thee)'twould answer me again. By our Loves Vows, which most relgious are, By thy beloved Head, and those gray Hairs Which Time may on it Snow, in future years, I come, where're thy Fate shall bid Thee go, Eternal Partner of thy weal and woe, So Thou but live, tho' all the God's say No. Farewel,—but prethee very careful be Of thy beloved Self (I mean) of me.

PHILLIS to DEMOPHOON. BY Mr. ED. FLOYD. The ARGUMENT.

Demophoon, the Son of Theseus and Phaedra' returning from the Trojan Wars, was by adverse Winds driv's on the Thracian shore, where he was royally entertained, and received into familiarity by Phillis Daughter of Lycurgus and Crustumena, King and Queen of Thrace: with whom, after he had a while remain'd, hearing of the death of Mnestheus (the Deposer of his Father) he went to take possession of his own Realm of Athens, yet with earnest protestations of returning within the space of one month. But being detain'd past the appointed time by the distractions his people were under, he gave occasion to Phillis (impatient of delays) to write him this Epistle.

PHillis (who entertain'd thy Love and Thee, Faithless Demophoon) blames thy Periury: How when withpain we parted didst thou mourn, And seem'dst to live alone for thy return! How didst thou limit my distress, and swear Within one month thy speedy presence here! Yet now four Moons are weary'd out, and see Thee still regardless of thy Vows and me. Hadst thou a tender sense to know the pain Of absent Lovers, who expect in vain, Thou wouldst not call me hasty, nor upbraid These humble murmurs of a wife betray'd. We're slow in our believing Ills, for I Flatter'd my self that yet I shou'd not dye: My self I've oft deluded,—thought thee kind— —Thy Ship returning with a prosp'rous wind: Theseus I've curst, and yet unjustly him, For thou perhaps art Author of thy Crime. The dang'rous shoals of Hebrus made me mourn, As fancying thee expos'd in thy return. Oft for thy health I've sought the Gods by pray'r, And Incense burnt to place thee in their care. When e're the Wind stood fair, I fancy'd streight Thy sudden presence or thy certain fate. Then have I study'd reasons for thy stay, And urg'd my wit to savour thy delay: Yet dost not thou the sense of Vows retain, To Gods, and me, made equally in vain. Thy strictest Vows did mix with common Air, Nor does thy tardy Fleet the fault repair. Thy absence fully does my Crime reprove, And seems design'd to pay so cheap a Love. My only fault was loving easily, And yet that fault claims gratitude in Thee. Where's now thy faith,—thy supplyant hands, and where The God prophan'd by thy fallacious pray'r? Where's Hymen now that should our hearts unite, Bless and secure our conjugal delight? First, by the Sea thou swor'st thy meaning just, The Sea that then thou wert about to trust: Thou swor'st by thy prentended Grandsire's name The God that does rebellious storms reclaim: By Venus and by Love's Artillery, The Instruments of mighty woes to me: By Iuno, who of marriage Vows takes care, And Ceres, who the hallow'd Torch does bear: Shou'd these wrong'd Pow'rs be just, cou'dst thou withstand The angry stroke of an Almighty hand? Thy Ships I did repair, thy Sails improve, And strengthen'd the deserter of my Love. I gave thee Oars as Instruments of speed, And sharpen'd all the darts by which I bleed. Thy Words,—Thy Kindred Gods—whate're was fain'd, With Joy I heard, with Faith I entertain'd: View'd with regard thy false commanded tears, Thy artful sorrow, and thy seeming fears. Thy Arts of Love to me thou might'st have spar'd, For I was too unhappily prepar'd. Nor shou'd I grieve to have well treated Thee, And limited my hospitality, But to admit thee loosely to my breast, Is Treason, fatal to my present rest. Ah! had I dy'd before that evening came, I then had dy'd in peace, secure of fame. Yielding I hop'd thy gratitude might move, And shewing mine, deserve thy utmost love. But 'tis inglorious thus to have betray'd (All pittiless) a frail believing Maid: A Maid that lov'd thee thou hast rob'd of fame▪ And may no greater honour reach thy name. In Athens when thy Statue shall be plac'd Near thy great Father with his Trophies grac'd: When Scyron and Procrustes shall be read, Scinis and Minotaure in triumph lead: Thebes quite reduc'd, the Centaure's overcome, Hell storm'd, & the black King disturb'd at home, Thy hated Image thus inscrib'd shall End,— —He who betray'd his Mistress and his Friend. Of all thy mighty Father has atchiev'd, Thou lik'st that Ariadne was deceiv'd: What he repented, thou dost still admire, And only to his treachery art Heir: (unenvy'd) she enjoys a nobler Mate, And drawn by harness'd Tygres, rides in state. The Thracian's, whom I scorn'd, now▪ shun my bed, As one by strange polluted hands misled: Says one, let learned Athens be her place, Some nobler Hand shall govern warlike Thrace. The End proves all—and may he never hit His rash presage, who dares condemn thee yet, For shou'dst thou now return, each will conclude I study'd with my own my Country's good: I've fail'd, alas! Thou no review dost make Or of my Palace or the Chrystal Lake. My eyes retain thy graceful Image, when With mournful Bowes thou bad'st me hope agen, Thou did'st embrace me, and with such delay, That long breath'd kisses seem'd to mean thy stay; Thou didst exchange, and mix our tears, & swear The Wind was inauspicious, when 'twas fair; When our divorce thou cou'dst no more decline, Thou saidst, Expect me—Phillis, I am thine: Him I expect, who meant to come no more, And Ships no more design'd to touch this shore: Yet still I hope—ah! come, tho' past thy time, That thy delay may be thy only Crime. Some wanton Maid (perhaps) seduces Thee, And buyes thy love with cheap discourse of me. Thou can'st not be unmindful who I am, Consult thy self for my neglected name; Phillis thy Constant, hospitable Friend, Who did her harbour and assistance lend: Love, Empire, All submitted to thy will, Who gave thee much, & wish'd to give thee still; Lycurgus's Land surrender'd to thy sway, And to thy Hand its Scepter did convey, As far as Rhodope and Haemus go, And the soft streams of sacred Hebrus flow; Thee my last blushes blest, thy loves long toyles Rewarded with my conquer'd Virging Spoyles. The howling Fiends and ominous Birds of Night With dismal notes perform'd each Nuptial Rite: With her curl'd Snakes the fierce Alecto Came, To light our Tapers with infernal flame. On Rocks I walk—and o're the barren Sand, Far as my Eyes can reach the spacious Strand; Look out all hours to see what Wind stands fair, By Earths cold damp untir'd, or Heav'ns bleake air; When any distant Sayl I chance to spy, I fancy thy loose Streamers drawing nigh; Launch'd into Sea, the tardy Gales I chide, And to meet thee I stem th' impetuous Tide; When their approach declares my hopes are vain, I fainting crave th' assistance of my Train. Above the Bay, which the spent Billows blocks, And form's a Precipice of pendent Rocks, Thence my despair presented me a grave, And nought but thy return my life shall save. May some kind Wave to thy own Shore convey, And at thy feet thy floating Phillis lay, Thy melting heart this dismal sound will groan, In these Embraces joyn'd, we meet too soon— Oft have I thirsted for a pois'nous draught, As oft a death from some kind Ponyard sought; Oft round that neck a silken Twine I cast, Which once thy dear per • idious Arms embrac'd. By death I'le heal my present Infamy, But stay to choose the speediest way to dye. This sad • hort Epitaph shall speak my doom, And fix my mournful story on my Tomb, This Monument did false Demophoon build, With the cold Ashes of his Mistress fill'd; He was the cause, and hers the hand that kill'd.

A PARAPHRASE ON OENONE to PARIS. BY Mrs. A. BEHN. The ARGUMENT.

Hecuba being with Child of Paris, dreamt she was delivered of a Firebrand, Priam consulting the Prophets, was answer'd the Child shou'd be the Cause of the Destruction of Troy, wherefore Priam commanded it should be deliver'd to wild Beasts as soon as born; but Hecuba conveys it secretly to Mount Ida, there to be foster'd by the Shepherds, where he falls in love with the Nymph Oenone, but at length being known and own'd, he sayls into Greece, and carries Helen to Troy, which Oenone hearing, writes him this Epistle.

TO thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Desires, Once tender Partner of my softest Fires; To thee I write, mine, whilst a Shepherds Swain, But now a Prince, that Title you disdain. Oh fatal pomp, that cou'd so soon divide What Love, and all our Vows so firmly ty'd! What God our Loves industrious to prevent, Curst thee with power, and ruin'd my Content? Greatness which does at best but ill agree With Love, such Distance sets 'twixt Thee & Me. Whilst thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess, My raging Passion can have no redress. Wou'd God, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been. This Great, this Cruel, Celebrated thing. That without hope I might have gaz'd & bow'd, And mixt my Adoration with the Crowd; Unwounded then I had escap'd those Eyes, Those lovely Authors of my Miseries. Not that less Charms their fatal pow'r had drest, But Fear and Awe my Love had then supprest: My unambitious Heart no Flame had known, But what Devotion pays to Gods alone. I might have wonder'd, and have wisht that He, Whom Heaven shou'd make me love, might look like Thee. More in a silly Nymph had been a sin, This had the height of my presumption been. But thou a Flock didst feed on Ida's Plain, And hadst no Title, but The lovely Swain. A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won, Then that of being own'd King Priam's Son. Whilst me a harmless Neighbouring Cottager You saw, and did above the rest preser. You saw! and at first sight you lov'd me too, Nor cou'd I hide the wounds receiv'd from you. Me all the Village Herdsmen strove to gain, For me the Shepherds sigh'd and su'd in vain, Thou hadst my heart, and they my cold disdain. Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and first born Of their lov'd Ewes, cou'd bribe my Native scorn. My Love, like hidden Treasure long conceal'd, Cou'd only where 'twas destin'd, be reveal'd. And yet how long my Maiden blushes strove Not to betray the easie new born Love. But at thy sight the kindling Fire wou'd rife, And I, unskil'd, declare it at my Eyes. But oh the Joy! the mighty Extasy Possest thy Soul at this Discovery. Speechless, and panting at my feet you lay, And short-breath'd Sighs told what you cou'd not say. A thousand times my hand with Kisses prest, And look'd such Darts, as none cou'd e're resist. Silent we gaz'd, and as my Eyes met thine, New Joy fill'd theirs, new Love and shame fill'd mine! You saw the Fears my kind disorder shows, And broke your Silence with a thousand Vows! Heavens, how you swore! by ev'ry Pow'r Divine You wou'd be ever true! be ever mine: Each God, a sacred witness you invoke, And wish'd their Curse when e're these Vows you broke. Quick to my Heart the perjur'd Accents ran, Which I took in, believ'd, and was undone. "Vows are Loves poyson'd Arrows, & the heart So wounded, rarely finds a Cure in Art. At least this heart which Fate has destin'd yours, This heart unpractic'd in Loves mystick pow'rs, For I am soft, and young as April Flowers. Now uncontroul'd we meet, uncheck't improve Each happier Minute in new Joys of Love! Soft were our hours! and lavishly the Day We gave intirely up to Love, and Play. Oft to the cooling Groves, our Flocks we led, And seated on some shaded, flowry Bed; Watch'd the united Wantons as they fed. And all the Day my list'ning Soul I hung, Upon the charming Musick of thy Tongue, And never thought the blessed hours too long. No Swain, no God like thee cou'd ever move, Or had so soft an Art in whispering Love, No wonder that thou wert Ally'd to Iove. And when you pip'd, or sung, or danc'd, or spoke, The God appear'd in every Grace, and Look. Pride of the Swains, and Glory of the Shades, The Grief, and Joy of all the Love-sick Maids. Thus whilst all hearts you rul'd without Controul, I reign'd the absolute Monarch of your Soul. Each Beach my Name yet bears, carv'd out by thee, Paris, and his Oenone fill each Tree; And as they grow the Letters larger spread, Grow still! a witness of my Wrongs when dead! Close by a silent silver Brook there grows A Poplar, under whose dear gloomy Boughs A thousand times we have exchang'd our Vows! Oh may'st thou grow! to an endless date of Years! Who on thy Bark this fatal Record bears; When Paris to Oenone proves untrue, Back Xanthus Streams shall to their Fountains • low. Turn! turn! your Tide, back to your Fountains run! The perjur'd Swain from all his Faith is gone! Curst be that day, may Fate point out the hour, As Ominous in his black Kalender; When Venus, Pallas, and the Wife of Iove Descended to thee in the Mirtle Grove, In shining Chariots drawn by winged Clouds: Naked they came, no Veil their Beauty shrouds; But every Charm, and Grace expos'd to view, Left Heav'n to be survey'd, and judg'd by you. To bribe thy voice, Iuno wou'd Crowns bestow, Pallas more gratefully wou'd dress thy Brow With Wreaths of Wit! Venus propos'd the choice Of all the fairest Greeks! and had thy Voice. Crowns, and more glorious Wreaths thou didst despise, And promis'd Beauty more than Empire prize! This when you told, Gods! what a killing fear Did over all my shivering Limbs appear? And I presag'd some ominous Change was near! The Blushes left my Cheeks, from every part The Blood ran swift to guard my fainting heart. You in my Eys the glimmering Light perceiv'd Of parting Life, and on my pale Lips breath'd Such Vows, as all my Terrors undeceiv'd. But soon the envying Gods disturb'd our Joys, Declare thee Great! and all my Bliss destroys! And now the Fleet is Anchor'd in the Bay That must to Troy the glorious Youth convey. Heavens! how you look'd! and what a Godlike Grace At their first Homage beautify'd your Face! Yet this no Wonder, or Amazement brought, You still a Monarch were in Soul, and thought! Nor cou'd I tell which most the Sight augments, Your Joys of Pow'r, or parting Discontents. You kist the Tears which down my Cheeks did glide, And mingled yours with the • oft falling Tide, And 'twixt your Sighs a thousand times you said Cease my Oenone! Cease my charming Maid! If Paris lives his Native Troy to see, My lovely Nymph, thou shalt a Princess be! But my Prophetick Fear no Faith allows, My breaking Heart resisted all thy Vows. Ah must we part, I cryd! those killing words No further Language to my Grief affords. Trembling, I fell upon thy panting Breast Which was with equal Love, and Grief opprest, Whilst sighs and looks, all dying spoke the rest, About thy Neck my feeble Arms I cast, Not Vines, nor Ivy circle Elms so fast. To stay, what dear Excuses didst thou frame, And fanciedst Tempests when the Seas were calm? How oft the Winds contrary feign'd to be, When they alas were only so to me! How oft new Vows of lasting Faith you swore, And 'twixt your Kisses all the old run o're? But now the wisely Grave, who Love despise, (Themselves past hope) do busily advise, Whisper Renown, and Glory in thy Ear, Language which Lovers fright, and Swains ne're hear. For Troy they cry! these Shepherds Weeds lay down, Change Crooks for Scepters! Garlands for a Crown! 'But sure that Crown does far less easie sit, 'Than Wreaths of Flow'rs, less innocent & sweet. 'Nor can thy Beds of State so grateful be, 'As those of Moss, & new fall'n Leaves with me! Now tow'rds the Beach we go, & all the way The Groves, the Fern, dark Woods, and Springs survey; That were so often conscious to the Rites Of sacred Love, in our dear stol'n Delights. With Eyes all languishing, each place you view, And sighing cry, Adieu, dear Shades, Adieu! Then 'twas thy Soul e'en doubted which to do, Refuse a Crown, or those dear Shades forgoe! Glory and Love! the great dispute persu'd, But the false Idol soon the God subdu'd. And now on Board you go, and all the Sails Are loosned, to receive the flying Gales. Whilst I half dead on the forsaken Strand, Beheld thee sighing on the Deck to stand, Wafting a thousand Kisses from thy Hand. And whilst I cou'd the lessening Vessel see, I gaz'd, and sent a thousand Sighs to thee! And all the Sea-born Neriads implor • Quick to return thee to our Rustick shore. Now like a Ghost I glide through ev'ry Grove, Silent, and sad as Death, about I rove, And visit all our Treasuries of Love! This Shade th'account of thousand Joys does hide, As many more this murmuring Rivers side, Where the dear Grass, as sacred, does retain The print, where thee and I so oft have lain. Upon this Oak thy Pipe, and Garland's plac'd, That Sycamore is with thy Sheephook grac' •• Here feed thy Flocks, once lov'd though now thy scorh; Like me forsaken, and like me forlorn! A Rock there is, from whence I cou'd survey From far the blewish Shore, and distant Sea, Whose hanging top with toy1 I climb each day, With greedy View the prospect I run o're, To see what wish't for Ships approach our shore. One day all hopeless on its point I stood, And saw a Vessel bounding o're the Flood, And as it nearer drew, I cou'd discern Rich Purple Sayls, Silk Cords, and Golden Stern; Upon the Deck a Canopy was spread Of Antique work in Gold and Silver made. Which mixt with Sun-beams dazling Light display'd. But oh! beneath this glorious Scene of State (Curst be the sight) a fatal Beauty sate. And fondly you were on her Bosome laid, Whilst with your perjur'd Lips her Fingers plaid; Wantonly curl'd and dally'd with that hair, Of which, as sacred Charms, I Bracelets wear. Oh! hadst thou seen me then in that mad state So ruin'd, so design'd for Death and Fate, Fix't on a Rock, whose horrid Precipice In hollow Murmurs wars with Angry Seas; Whilst the bleak Winds alost my Garments bear, Ruffling my careless and dishevel'd hair, I look't like the sad Statue of Despair. With out-stretch'd voice I cry'd, and all around The Rocks and Hills my dire complaints resound, I rend my Garments, tear my flattering Face, Whose false deluding Charms my Ruin was. Mad as the Seas in Storms, I breath Despair, Or Winds let loose in unresisting Air. Raging and Frantick through the Woods I fly, And Paris! lovely, faithless, Paris; cry. But when the Ecchos sound thy Name again. I change to new variety of Pain. For that dear Name such tenderness inspires, As turns all Passion to Loves softer Fires: With tears I fall to kind Complaints again, So Tempests are allay'd by Show'rs of Rain. Say, lovely Youth, why wou'dst thou thus betray My easie Faith, and lead my heart astray? It might some humble Shepherds Choice have been, Had I that Tongue ne're heard, those Eyes ne're seen. And in some homely Cott, in low Repose, Liv'd undisturb'd with broken Vows and Oaths: All day by shaded Springs my Flocks have kept, And in some honest Arms at Night have slept. Then unupbraided with my wrongs thou'dst been Safe in the Joys of the fair Grecian Queen • What Stars do rule the Great? no sooner you Became a Prince, but you were Perjur'd too. Are Crowns and Falshoods then consistant things? And must they all be faithless who are Kings? The Gods be prais'd that I was humbly born, Even tho' it renders me my Paris scorn. And I had rather this way wretched prove, Than be a Queen and faithless in my Love. Not my fair Rival wou'd I wish to be, To come prophan'd by others Joys to thee. Aspotless Maid into thy Arms I brought, Untouch't in Fame, ev'n Innocent in thought. Whilst she with Love has treated many a Guest, And brings thee but the leavings of a Feast: With Theseus from her Country made Escape, Whilst she miscall'd the willing Flight, a Rape. So now from Atreus Son, with thee is fled, And still the Rape hides the Adult' rous Deed. And is it thus Great Ladies keep intire That Vertue they so boast, and you admire? Is this a Trick of Courts, can Ravishment Serve for a poor Evasion of Consent? Hard shift to save that Honour priz'd so high, Whilst the mean Fraud's the greater Infamy. How much more happy are we Rural Maids, Who know no other Palaces than Shades? Who want no Titles to enslave the Croud, Least they shou'd babble all our Crimes aloud. No Arts our good to show, our Ills to hide, Nor know to cover faults of Love with Pride. I lov'd, and all Loves Dictates did persue, And never thought it cou'd be Sin with you. To Gods, and Men, I did my Love proclaim For one soft hour with thee, my charming Swain, Wou'd Recompence an Age to come of Shame, Cou'd it as well but satisfie my Fame. But oh! those tender hours are fled and lost, And I no more of Fame, or Thee can boast! 'Twas thou wert Honour, Glory, all to me: Till Swains had learn'd the Vice of Perjury, No yielding Maids were charg'd with Infamy. 'Tis false and broken Vows make Love a Sin, Hadst thou been true, We innocent had been. But thou less faith than Autumn leaves do'st show, Which ev'ry Blast bears from their native Bough. Less Weight, less Constancy, in thee is born Than in the slender mildew'd Ears of Corn. Oft when you Garlands wove to deck my hair, Where mystick Pinks, & Dazies mingled were, You swore 'twas • itter Diadems to bear: And when with eager Kisses prest my hand, Have said, How well a Scepter 'two • 'd command! And if I danc't upon the Flow'ry Green, Wi • h charming, wishing Eyes survey my Miene, And cry! the Gods design'd thee for a Queen! Why then for Helen dost thou me forsake? Can a poor empty Name such difference make? Besides, if Love can be a Sin thine's one, Since Helen does to Menelaus belong. Be Just, restore her back, She's none of thine, And, charming Paris, thou art only mine. • Tis no Ambitious Flame that makes me sue To be again belov'd, and blest with you; No vain desire of being Ally'd t'a King, Love is the only Dowry I can bring, And tender Love is all I ask again. Whilst on her dang'rous Smiles fierce War must wait With Fire and Vengeance at your Palace gate, Rouze your soft Slumbers with their rough Alarms, And rudely snatch you from her faithless Arms: Turn then • air Fugitive, e're tis too late, E're thy mistaken Love procures thy Fate; E're a wrong'd Husband dos thy Death design, And pierce that dear, that faithless Heart of thine.

PARIS TO HELENA. BY Mr. RICHARD DVKE. The ARGUMENT.

Paris having sail'd to Sparta for the obtaining of Helen, whom Venus had promised him as the reward of his adjudging the prize of Beauty to her, was nobly there entertain'd by Menelaus, Helens Husband; but he being call'd away to Crete, to take possession of what was left him by his Grandfather Atreus, commends his Guest to the care of his Wife. In his absence Paris courts her, and writes to her the following Epistle.

ALL health, fair Nymph, thy Paris sends to thee, Tho You, and only You can give it me▪ Shall I then speak? or is it needless grown To tell a Passion that it self has shown? Do's not my Love it self too open lay, And all I think in all I do betray? If not, oh! may it still in secret lye, Till time with our kind wishes shall comply, Till all our joys may to us come sincere, Nor loose their price by the allay of fear. In vain I strive; who can that fire conceal Which do's it self by its own Light reveal? But if you needs would hear my trembling tongue Speak what my actions have declar'd so long, I Love you've there the word that do's impart The truest Message from my bleeding heart. Forgive me, Madam, that I thus confess To you, my fair Physician, my Disease, And wi • h such looks this Suppliant paper grace, As best become the Beauties of that face. May that smooth brow no angry wrinkle wear, But be your looks as kind as they are fair. Some pleasure 'tis to think these Lines shall find An Entertainment at your hands so kind, For this creates a hope that I too may Receiv'd by You as happy be as they. Ah! may that hope be true! nor I complain That Venus promis'd you to me in vain. For know, lest you through Ignorance offend The Gods, 'tis Heav'n that me does hither send. None of the meanest of the Powers Divine That first inspir'd, still favours my design. Great is the prize I seek, I must confess, But neither is my due or merit less: Venus has promis'd she would you assign, Fair as her self, to be for ever mine. Guided by her, my Troy I left for thee, Nor fear'd the dangers of the faithless Sea, She with a kind and an auspicious gale Drove the good Ship, and stretch't out ev'ry Sail. For she who sprung out of the teeming deep, Still o're the Main do's her wide Empire keep. Still may she keep it, and as she with ease Allays the wrath of the most angry Seas, So may she give my stormy mind some rest, And calm the raging Tempest of my breast, And bring home all my sighs and all my vowes To their wisht harbour and desir'd repose. Hither my • lames I brought, not • ound'em here, I my whole course by their kind Light did steer. For I by no mistake or storm was tost Against my will upon this happy Coast. Nor as a Merchant did I plow the Main To venture Life, like sordid Fools, for gain. No; may the Gods preserve my present store, And only give me you to make it more. Nor to admire the place came I so far; I have Towns richer than your Cities are. 'Tis you I seek, to me from Venus due, You were my wish, before your Charms I knew▪ Bright Images of you my mind did draw Long e're my Eyes the lovely Object saw. Nor wonder that with the swift winged dart At such a distance you could wound my heart: So Fate ordain'd, and lest you fight with Fate, Hear and believe the truth I shall relate. Now in my Mothers Womb shut up I lay, Her fatal burthen longing for the day, When she in a mysterious Dream was told▪ Her teeming Womb a burning Torch did hold; Frighted she rises, and her Vision she To Priam tells, and to his Prophets He; They sing that I all Troy should set on fire, But sure Fate meant the flames of my desire. For fear of this among the Swains expos'd, My native greatness every thing disclos'd. Beauty and strength and courage joyn'd in one, Through all disguise spoke me a Monarchs Son. A place there is in Ida's thickest Grove With Oaks and Firr-trees shaded all above, The grass here grows untoucht by bleating flocks, Or Mountain Goat, or the laborious Ox, From hence Troys Tow'rs magnificence & pride, Leaning against an aged Oak, I spy'd. When straight methought I heard the trembling ground With the strange noise of trampling feet refound. In the same instant Iove's great Messenger, On all his Wings born through the yielding Air, Lighting before my wondring Eyes did stand, His golden Rod shone in his sacred Hand: With him three charming Goddesses there came, Iuno and Pallas, and the Cyprian Dame. With an unusual fear I stood amaz'd, Till thus the God my sinking Courage rais'd; Fear not; Thou art Jove's substitute below, The prize of heavenly beauty to bestow; Contending Goddesses appeal to you, Decide their strife; He spake, and up he flew. Then bolder grown, I throw my fears away, And every one with curious eyes survey, Each of 'em merited the Victory, And I their doubtful Judge was griev'd to see That one must have it, when deserv'd by three. But yet that one there was which most prevail'd, And with more pow'rful Charms my heart assail'd. Ah! would you know who thus my breast could move? Who could it be but the fair Que • n of Love? With mighty Bribes they all for Conquest strive, Iuno will Empires, Pallas Valour give, Whilst I stand doubting which I should prefer, Empire's soft ease, or glorious toyls of War; But Venus gently smild, and thus she spake, They're dangerous gifts, O do not, do not take! I'le make Thee Love's immortal pleasures know, And Ioyes that in full tides for ever flow. For, if you judge the Conquest to be mine, Faire Leda's fairer Daughter shall be thine. She spake; and I gave her the conquest, due Both to her Beauty and her gift of You. Mean while (my angry Stars more gentle grown) I am acknowledg'd Royal Priam's Son, All the glad Court all Troy does celebrate With a new Festival my change of Fate, And as I now languish and dye for thee, So did the Beauties of all Troy for me. You in full pow'r over a heart do reign, For which a thousand Virgins sigh'd in vain: Nor did Queens only fly to my embrace, But Nymphs of form, divine, and heavenly race: I all their Loves with cold disdain represt, Since hopes of you first fir'd my longing breast. Your charming form all day my fancy drew, And when night came, my dreams were all of you. What pleasures then must you your self impart, Whose shadows only so surpriz'd my heart? And oh! how did I burn approaching nigh'er, That was so scorch'd by so remote a fire! For now no longer could my hopes resrain From seeking their wisht Object through the main. I fell the stately Pine, and every Tree That best was fit to cut the yielding Sea, Fetcht from Gargarian Hills tall Firs I cleave, And Ida naked to the Winds I leave, Stiff Okes I bend, and solid Planks I form, And every Ship with well-knit rib • I arm, To the tall Mast I Sails and Streamers joyn, And the gay Poops with painted Gods do shine. But on my Ship does only Venus stand With little Cupid smiling in her hand, Guide of the way she did her self command. My Fleet thus rigg'd, and all my thoughts on thee I long to plow the vast Aegean Sea, My anxious Parents my desires withstand, And both with pious tears my stay command: Cassandra too, with loose dishevel'd hair, Just as our hasty Ships to sail prepare, Full of Prophetick fury cries aloud, O whether steers my Brother through the flood? Little, ah! little dost thou know or heed To what a raging fire these waters lead. True were her fears, and in my breast I feel The scorching flames her Fury did foretell. Yet out I sail, and favour'd by the Wind, On your blest Shore my wisht for haven find; Your Husband then, so Heav'n, kind Heav'n ordains, In his own house his Rival entertains. Shews me whate're in Sparta do's delight The curious Travellers enquiring sight: But I, who only long'd to gaze on you, Could taste no pleasure in the idle show. But at thy sight; oh! where was then my heart! Out from my breast it gave a sudden start, Sprung forth and met half way the fatal dart. Such or less charming was the Queen of Love, When with her rival Goddesses she strove. But, Fairest, hadst You came among the three, Even she, the prize must have resign'd to thee. Your Beauty is the only Theme of Fame, And all the world sounds with fair Helens name Nor lives there she whom pride it self can raise To claim with you an equal share of praise: Do I speak false? rather Report do's so, Detracting from you in a praise too low. More here I find than that could ever tell, So much your Beauty does your Fame excel. Well then might Theseus, he who all things knew, Think none was worthy of his Theft but you; I this bold theft admire; but wonder more He ever would so dear a prize restore: Ah! would these hands have ever let you go? Or could I live and be divorc't from you? No, sooner I with life it self could part, Than e're see you torn from my bleeding heart. But could I do as he, and give you back, Yet sure some taste of Love I first would take, Would first in all your blooming excellence And Virgin sweets feast my luxurious Sense; Or if you would not let that treasure go, Kisses at least you should, you would bestow, And let me smell the slow'r as it did grow. Come then into my longing arm • , and try My lasting, fixt, Eternal constancy, Which never till my funeral pile shall wast; My present fire shall mingle with my last. Scepters and Crowns for you I did disdain, With which great Iuno tempted me in vain. And when bright Pallas did her bribes prepare, One soft embrace from you I did prefer To Courage, Strength, and all the Pomp of War. Nor shall I ever think my choice was ill, My judgment's settled and approves it still, Do you but grant my Hopes may prove as true As they were plac'd above all things but you. I am, as well as you, of Heavenly race, Nor will my Birth your mighty line disgrace. Pleias and Iove, our noble Lineage Head, And them a race of God-like Kings Succeed. All Asia's Scepters to my Father bow, And half the spacious East his power allow; There you shall see the Houses rooft with Gold, And Temples glorious as the Gods they hold. Troy you shall see, and divine Walls admire, Built to the consort of Apollo's Lyre. What need I the vast floud of people tell That over its wide banks do's almost swell? You shall gay troops of Phrygian Matrons meet, And Trojan Wives shining in every street. How often then will you your self confess The emptiness and poverty of Greece? How often will you say, one Palace there Contains more wealth than do whole Cities here? I speak not this your Sparta to disgrace, For wheresoe're your Life began its race Must be to me the happyest dearest place. Yet Sparta's poor; and you that should be drest In all the riches of the shining East, Should understand How ill that sordid place Suits with the beauty of your charming face. That face with costly dress and rich attire Should shine, and make the gazing world admire When you the Habit of my Trojans see, What, think you, must that of their Ladies be? Oh! then be kind, fair Spartan, nor disdain A Trojan in your Bed to entertain. He was a Trojan, and of our great line, That to the Gods do's mix immortal Wine; Tithonus too, whom to her rosie bed The Goddess of the Morning blushing led; So was Anchises of our Trojan race, Yet Venus self to his desir'd embrace With all her train of little Loves did flie, And in His arms learnt for a while to die. Nor do I think that Menelaus can Compar'd with Me, appear the greater Man. I'm sure my Father never made the Sun With frighted Steeds from His dire banquet run: No Grandfather of mine is staind with blood, Or with his crime names the Myrtoan flood. None of our race do's in the Stygian Lake Sna • ch at those Apples he wants pow'r to take. But stay; since You with such a Husband joyn, Your Father Iove is forc't to grace his Line. He (Gods!) a wretch unworthy of those charms, Do's all the Night lie melting in your armes, Do's every minute to new joys improve, And riots in the luscious sweets of Love. I but at Table one short view can gain, And that too, only to encrease my pain: O may such Feasts my worst of Foes attend, As often I at your spread table find. I loath my food when my tormented eye Sees his rude hand in your soft bosom lie. I burst with envy when I him behold Your tender limbs in his loose robe enfold. When he your lips with melting kisses seald, Before my eyes I the large goblet held. When you with him in strict embraces close, My hated meat to my dry'd palat grows. Oft have I sigh'd, then sigh'd again to see That sigh with scornful smiles repaid by thee. Oft I with Wine would quench my hot desire, In vain; for so I added fire to fire. Oft have I turnd away my Head in vain You straight recall'd my longing eyes again. What shall I do? your sports with grief I see, But 'tis a greater, not to look on Thee. With all my Art I strive my flames to hide, But through the thin disguise they are descry'd. Too well alas! my wounds to you are known. And O that they were so to you alone! How o • t turn I my weeping eyes away Lest he the cause should ask, and I betray? What tales of Love tell I when warm'd with Wine, To your dear face applying every line, In borrow'd names I my own passion shew, They the feign'd Lovers are, but I the true. Sometimes more freedom in discourse to gain, For my excuse I drunkenness would feign. Once I remember your loose Garment fell, And did your naked, swelling breasts reveal, Breasts white as snow, or the false down of Iove, When to your Mother the kind Swan made Love! Whil'st with the sight surpriz'd I gazing stand, The cup I held, dropt from my careless hand. If you your young Hermione but kiss, Straight from her lips I snatch the envy'd bliss▪ Sometimes supinely laid, Love Songs I sing And wa •• led kisses from my fingers fling. Your women to my aid I try to move With all the pow'rful Rhetorick of Love, But they alas! speak nothing but despair, And in the midst leave my neglected prayer. Oh! that by some great prize you might be won, And your possession might the Victor Crown: As Pelops his Hippodamia won, Then had you seen what I for you had done. But now I've nothing left to do but pray, And my self prostrate at your feet to lay. O Thou, thy houses Glory, brighter far Than thy two shining Brothers friendly Star! O worthy of the bed of Heav'ns great King, If ought so fair but from himself could spring▪ Either with thee I back to Troy will fly, Or here a wretched banisht Lover die. With no slight wound my tender breast dossmart, My bones and marrow feel the piercing dart; I find my Sister true did Prophesie, I with a Heavenly Dart should wounded die; Despise not then a Love by Heaven design'd, So may the Gods still to your Vows be kind. Much I could say, but what, will best be known In your apartment when we are alone. You blush and with a superstitious dread Fear to defile the Sacred Marriage Bed: Ah! Helen, can you then so simple be, To think such Beauty can from faults be free? Or change that face, or you must needs be kind, Beauty and Vertue seldom have been joyn'd. Iove and bright Venus do our thefts approve, Such thefts as these gave you your Father Iove, And if in you ought of your Parents last, Can Jove and Leda's Daughter well be chast? Yet then be chast when we to Troy shall go; (For she who sins with one alone, is so.) But let us now enjoy that pleasing sin, Then Marry and be innocent agen. Ev'n your own Husband doth the same perswade, Silent Himself, yet all His actions plead: For me they plead, and he, good man, because He'll spoil no sport, officiously withdraws. Had he no other time to visit Crete? Oh! How prodigious is a Husbands Wit! He went, and as he went He cry'd, My Dear, Instead of me, you of our Guest take care. But you forget your Lords Command I see, Nor take you any care of Love or me. And think you such a thing as He do's know The treasure that he holds in holding you? No, did he understand but half your charms; He durst not trust 'em in a strangers arms. If neither his nor my request can move, We're forc't by Opportunity to Love; We should be fools, even greater fools than He, Should so secure a time unactive be. Alone these tedious winter nights you lie In a cold widow'd bed, and so do I. Let mutual joys, our willing bodies joyn, That happy night shall the mid day out shine. Then will I swear by all the Pow'rs above, And in their awful presence seal my Love. Then if my wishes may aspire so High, I with our flight shall win you to comply; But if nice Honour little scruples frame, The force I'le use shall vindicate your same. Of Theseus and your Brothers I can learn, No precedents so nearly you concern: You Theseus, they Leucippus Daughter stole, I'l be the fourth in the illustrious roll. Well man'd, well arm'd for you my Fleet do's stay, And waiting winds murmur at our delay. Through Troys throng'd Streets you shall in triumph go, Ador'd as some new Goddess here below. Where 'ere you tread, Spices and Gums shall smoak▪ And Victims fall beneath the fatal stroke. My Father, Mother, all the joyful Court, All Troy to you with presents shall resort. Alas! 'tis nothing what I yet have said, What there you'l find, shall what I write exc • eed. Nor fear, lest War pursue our hasty flight, And angry Greece should all her force unite. What ravisht Maid did ever Wars regain? Vain the attempt, and fear of it as vain. The Thracians Orithya stole from far, Yet Thrace near heard the noise of following War. Iason too stole away the Colchian Maid, Yet Colchos did not Thessaly invade. He who stole you, stole Ariadne too, Yet Minos did not with all Crete puruse. Fear in these cases than the danger's more, And when the threatning tempest once is o're, Our shame's then greater than our fear before. But say from Greece a threatned War persue, Know I have strength and wounding weapons too. In Men and Horse more numerous than Greece Our Empire is, nor in it's compass less. Nor do's your Husband Paris ought excel In generous courage or in Martial skill. Ev'n but a Boy from my slain Foes I gain'd My stolen Heard, and a new Name attain'd; Ev'n then or'come by me I cou'd produce Deiphobus and great Ilioneus. Nor hand to hand more to be fear'd am I, Than when from far my certain Arrows fly. You for his Youth can no such actions feign, Nor can he e're my envy'd skill attain. But could he, Hector's your security, And he alone an Army is to me. You know me not, nor the hid Prowess find Of Him that Heav'n has for your bed design'd. Either no War from Greece shall follow thee, Or if it do's, shall be repell'd by me. Nor think I fear to fight for such a Wife, That prize would give the Coward's courage life. All after ages shall your fame admire, If you alone set the whole world on fire. To Sea, to Sea, while all the Gods are kind, And all I promise, you in Troy shall find.

HELEN TO PARIS. By the Right Honourable the Earl of MULGRAVE AND Mr. DRYDEN. The ARGUMENT.

Helen, having received the foregoing Epistle from Paris, returns the following Answer: wherein she seems at first to chide him for his Presumption in Writing, as he had done, which could only proceed from his low Opinion of her Vertue; then owns her self to be sensible of the Passion, which he had expressed for her, tho she much suspect his Constancy; and at last discovers her Inclinations to be favourable to him. The whole Letter shewing the extream artifice of Woman-kind.

WHen loose Epistles violate Chast Eyes, She half Consents, who silently denies: How dares a Stranger with designs so vain, Marriage and Hospitable Rights Prophane? Was it for this, your Fate did shelter find From swelling Seas and every faithless wind? (For tho a distant Country brought you forth, Your usage here was equal to your worth.) Does this deserve to be rewarded so? Did you come here a Stranger, or a Foe? Your partial Judgment may perhaps complain; And think me barbarous for my just disdain; Ill-bred then let me be, but not unchast, Nor my clear fame with any spot defac'd: Tho in my face there's no affected Frown, Nor in my Carriage a feign'd niceness shown, I keep my Honor still without a stain, Nor has my Love made any Coxcomb vain. Your Boldness I with admiration see; What hope had you to gain a Queen like me? Because a Hero forc'd me once away, Am I thought fit to be a second prey? Had I been won, I had deserv'd your blame, But sure my part was nothing but the shame: Yet the base theft to him no fruit did bear, I scap'd unhurt by any thing but fear. Rude force might some unwilling Kisses gain, But that was all he ever cou'd obtain. You on such terms would nere have let me go, Were he like you, we had not parted so. Untouch'd the Youth restor'd me to my Friends, And modest usage made me some amends; 'Tis vertue to repent a vicious deed; Did he repent that Paris might succeed? Sure 'tis some Fate that sets me above wrongs, Yet still exposes me to busie tongues. Il'e not complain, for whose's displeas'd with Love, If it sincere, discreet, and Constant prove? But that I fear; not that I think you base, Or doubt the blooming beauties of my face? But all your Sex is subject to deceive, And ours alas, too willing to believe. Yet others yield: and Love o'recomes the best, But why should I not shine above the rest? Fair Leda's Story seems at first to be A fit example ready found for me; But she was Cousen'd by a borrow'd shape, And under harmless Feathers felt a Rape: If I should yield, what Reason could I use? By what mistake the Loving Crime excuse? Her fault was in her pow'rful Lover lost, But of what Iupiter have I to boast? Tho you to Heroes, and to Kings succeed, Our Famous Race does no addition need, And great Alliances but useless prove To one that's come her self from mighty Iove. Go then and boast in some less haughty place, Your Phrygian Blood, and Priam's Ancient race, Which I wou'd shew I valu'd, if I durst; You are the fifth from Iove, but I the first, The Crown of Troy is pow'rful I confess, But I have reason to think ours no less. Your Letter fill'd with promises of all, That Men can good, or Women pleasant call, Gives expectation such an ample field, As wou'd move Goddesses themselves to yield. But if I e're offend great Iuno's Laws, Your self shall be the Dear, the only Cause; Either my Honour I'll to death maintain, Or follow you, without mean thoughts of Gain. Not that so fair a Present I despise, We like the Gift, when we the giver prize. But 'tis your Love moves me, which made you take, Such pains, & run such hazards for my sake; I have perceiv'd (though I dissembled too) A Thousand things that Love has made you do; Your eager Eyes would almost dazle mine, In which (wild man) your wanton thoughts wou'd shine. Sometimes you'd sigh, sometimes disorder'd stand, And with unusual ardor, press my hand; Contrive just after me to take the Glass, Nor wou'd you let the least occasion pass, Which oft I fear'd, I did not mind alone, And blushing sate for things which you have done; Then murmur'd to my self, he'll for my sake Do any thing, I hope 'twas no mistake: Oft have I read within this pleasing Grove, Under my Name those Charming words, I Love, I frowning, seem'd not to believe your Flame, But now, alas, am come to write the same. If I were capable to do amiss, I could not but be sensible of this. For oh! your Face has such peculiar charms, That who can hold from flying to your arms? But what I ner'e can have without offence, May some blest Maid possess with innocence. Pleasure may tempt, but vertue more should move, O Learn of me to want the thing you Love. What you desire is sought by all mankind: As you have eyes, so others are not blind. Like you they see, like you my charms adore, They wish not less, but you dare venture more: Oh! had you then upon our Coasts been brought, My Virgin Love, when thousand Rivals sought, You had I seen, you should have had my voice; Nor could my Husband justly blame my Choice, For both our hopes, alas you come to late! Another now is Master of my Fate. More to my wish I cou'd have liv'd with you, And yet my present lot can undergo. Cease to solicit a weak Woman's will, And urge not her you Love, to so much ill. But let me live contented as I may, And make not my unspotted fame your prey. Some Right you claim, since naked to your eyes Three Goddesses disputed Beauties prize; One offer'd Valour, to'ther Crowns, but she Obtain'd her Cause, who smiling promis'd me. But first I am not of belief so light, To think such Nymphs wou'd shew you such a sight. Yet granting this, the other part is feign'd: A Bribe so mean, your sentence had not gain'd. With partial eyes I shou'd my self regard, To think that Venus made me her reward: I humbly am content with human praise; A Goddesse's applause wou'd envy raise: But be it as you say, for 'tis confest, The Men who flatter highest, please us best. That I suspect it, ought not to displease; For Miracles are not believ'd with ease. One joy I have, that I have Venus voice; A greater yet, that you confirm'd her Choice; That proffer'd Laurels, promis'd Sov'raignty, Iuno and Pallas you contemn'd for me. Am I your Empire then, and your renown? What heart of Rock but must by this be won? And yet bear witness, O you Powr's above, How rude I am in all the Arts of Love! My hand is yet untaught to write to men; This is th' Essay of my unpractis'd pen: Happy those Nymphs, whom use has perfect made: I think all Crime, and tremble at a shade. Ev'n while I write, my fearful conscious eyes Look often back, misdoubting a surprize. For now the Rumour spreads among the Croud, At Court in whispers, but in Town aloud: Dissemble you, what er'e you hear e'm say: To leave off Loving were your better way, Yet if you will dissemble it, you may. Love secretly: the absence of my Lord, More freedom gives, but does not all afford: Long is his Journey, long will be his stay; Call'd by affairs of Consequence away. To go or not when unresolv'd he stood, I bid him make what swift return he cou'd: Then Kissing me, he said I recommend All to thy Care, but most my Trojan Friend. I smil'd at what he innocently said, And only answer'd, you shall be obey'd. Propitious winds have born him far from hence, But let not this secure your confidence. Absent he is, yet absent he Commands, You know the Proverb, Princes have long hands. My Fame's my burden, for the more I'm prais'd; A juster ground of jealousie is rais'd. Were I less fair, I might have been more blest: Great Beauty through great danger is possest. To leave me here his venture was not hard, Because he thought my vertue was my Guard. He fear'd my Face, but trusted to my Life, The Beauty doubted, but believ'd the Wife: You bid me use th' occasion while I can, Put in our hands by the good easie man. I wou'd, and yet I doubt, 'twixt Love and fear; One draws me from you, and one brings me near. Our flames are mutual: and my Husband's gone, The nights are long; I fear to lie alone. One House contains us, and weak Walls divide. And you 're too pressing to be long denied: Let me not live, but every thing conspires, To joyn our Loves, and yet my fear retires. You Court with words, when you shou'd force employ, As Rape is requisite to shamefac'd joy. Indulgent to the wrongs which we receive, Our Sex can suffer what we dare not give. What have I said! for both of us 'twere best, Our kindling fires, if each of us supprest. The Faith of Strangers is too prone to change, And like themselves their wandring Passions range. Hipsypile, and the fond Minoian Maid, Were both by trusting of their Ghests betray'd. How can I doubt that other men deceive, When you your self did fair Oenone leave? But lest I shou'd upbraid your treachery, You make a merit of that Crime to me: Yet grant you were to faithful Love inclin'd, Your weary Trojans wait but for a wind. Shou'd you prevail while I assign the night, Your Sails are hoysted, and you take your flight: Some bawling Mariner our Love destroys, And breaks a sunder our unfinish'd joys. But I with you may leave the Spartan Port, To view the Trojan Wealth, and Priam's Court. Shown while I see, I shall expose my Fame: And fill a foreign Country with my shame. In Asia what reception shall I find? And what dishonour leave in Greece behind? What will your Brothers, Priam, Hecuba, And what will all your modest Matrons say? Ev'n you, when on this action you reflect, My future Conduct justly may suspect: And what er'e Stranger Lands upon your Coast, Conclude me, by your own example, lost. I from your rage, a Strumpet's Name shall hear, While you forget, what part in it you bear. You my Crimes Authour, will my Crime upbraid: Deep under ground, Oh let me first be laid! You boast the Pomp and Plenty of your Land, And promise all shall be at my Command; Your Trojan Wealth, believe me, I despise; My own poor Nat̄ive Land has dearer ties. Shou'd I be injur'd on your Phrygian Shore, What help of Kindred cou'd I there implore? Medea was by Iasons flatt'ry won: I may like her believe and be undon. Plain honest hearts, like mine, suspect no cheat; And Love contributes to its own deceit. The Ships about whose sides loud Tempests roar, With gentle Winds were wafted from the Shore. Your teeming Mother dreamt a flaming Brand Sprung from her Womb consum'd the Trojan Land. To second this, old Prophecies conspire, That Ilium shall be burnt with Grecian fire: Both give me fear, nor is it much allai'd, That Venus is oblig'd our Loves to aid. For they who lost their Cause, revenge will take, And for one Friend two Enemies you make. Nor can I doubt, but shou'd I follow you, The Sword wou'd soon our fatal Crime pursue: A wrong so great my Husband's rage wou'd rouze, And my Relations wou'd his Cause espouse. You boast your Strength and Courage, but alas! Your words receive small credit from your Face. Let Heroes in the Dusty field delight, Those Limbs were fashion'd for another fight. Bid Hector sally from the Walls of Troy, A sweter quarrel shou'd your arms employ. Yet fears like these, shou'd not my mind perplex, Were I as wise as many of my Sex. But time and you, may bolder thoughts inspire; And I perhaps may yield to your desire. You last demand a private Conference, These are your words, but I can ghess your sense. Your unripe hopes their harvest must attend: Be Rul'd by me, and time may be your friend. This is enough to let you understand, For now my Pen has tir'd my tender hand: My Woman Knows the secret of my heart, And may hereafter better news impart.

PENELOPE TO ULYSSES. BY Mr. RYMER. The ARGUMENT.

The Rape of Helen having carried all the Grecian Princes to the Siege of Troy; Ulysses amongst the rest, there signaliz'd his manhood, and prudence particularly. But the siege at an end, and he not returning with the other Captains, Penelope sends this Letter in quest of him▪ She had rendred her self as deservedly famous on her part by resisting all the while the importunity of her Suitors with an unusual constancy, and fidelity. She complains to Ulysses of their carriage, she likewise tells him her apprehensions and fears for him during the War, and since, acquaints him with the ill posture of his Family through his absence, and desires him to hasten home as the only means to set all right again.

To your Penelope at length break home, Send no excuse, nor stay to write, but come. Our trouble long, Troy, does not hold you now; Nor twenty Troy's were worth all this ado. Wou'd some just storm and raging Seas had drown'd The Ru •• ian, when for Lacedemon bound; I should not then of tedious daies complain, Nor cold a nights and comfortless have lay'n: Nor should this pains to pass the evenings take, And work, and weave ev'n till my fingers ake. I alwaies fear'd worse dangers than the true, (As alwaies Love unquiet fears pursue) Fancy'd thee by fierce Trojans compast round, And Hector's name still struck me to the ground. When told of Nestors Son, by Hector slain, Streight Nestors Son rouz'd all my fears again. When for his sham how dear Patroclus paid; I wept to find that wit no better sped. Tlepolemus by Trojan javelin kil'd, Thro' all my veins an icy terror thrill'd. Whatever Greeks miscarry'd in the fray, I fainted, and sell (well nigh) dead as they. Heaven for chast Love has better sate in store, My Husband lives, and Troy is now no more. Our Captains well return'd, each Altar flames, And Temples all Barbarian Booty crams; For their safe Loves the women Offrings bring, And Trojan Fates by ours defeated sing. All stand amaz'd to hear both old and young, And list •• ing wives upon their Husbands hung. Some on the Table draw each bloody fight, And spilling Wine the whole sad Iliad write. This Simois, that the Sigean Land, And there did Priams lofty Palace stand. Here skulkt Vlysses, there Achilles dar'd, There Hector torn, the foaming Horses scar'd. All did Old Nestor to your Son explain; To seek you sent, who told me all again. Your Sword how Dolon, no, nor Rhesus scap'd, Banter'd the one, this taken as he napp'd. Fool-hardy you, and us remembring ill, Nightly amidst those Thracian Tents to steal, There numbers slay, one only ayding thee, Thou hast been wise, and would'st have thought on me. Still pant I, told, how all in triumph brave, Round your friends Camp those Thracian Steeds you drave. But what avails it me that Troy did yield, And by your Prowess, the Town is now a Field? As when Troy stood, I still remain alone, Th' effect continues, though the cause is gone. To others sac'kt, to only me upheld, Ev'n whil'st it lies by Greek abiders till'd. 〈◊〉 Priams Towers now lofty corn appears, And Phrygian blood a pond'rous harvest rears. No House remains, nought of a Trojan found, Unless you dig their bones from under ground. Where art thou Conqueror? what detains thee now? Or may not I your new Atchiev'ments know? What ever Skipper hither come a shore, For thee I ask, and ask him ore and ore; Nor parts he, till I scrible half a Sheet, To give thee, should you ever chance to meet. We sent to Pylos Nestors ancient seat, From Pylos we no certain tydings gat: • o Sparta sent, the Spartans nothing know, What course you Steer, nor where you wander now. Wou'd those same God-built Walls were standing still, Now I repent that ere I wisht'em ill Then where thou fought'st I surely should have learn'd, Nor save for War, the common grievance, mourn'd. Now, what I know not, all I madly fear, And a wide field lies open to my care. By Sea, or Land whatever dangers sway, Those I suspect the Causes of your stay. Whilst thus I simply muse, who knows your mind, Perhaps abroad some other Love you find: Perhaps to her your dowdy Wife define, Who knows no more, so that her Cupboards shine. No; vanish jealous thoughts nor fright me more, He wou'd be with me, were it in his power. My Sire would force me from my Widows Bed, Blames my delay, and chides, and shakes his head, Let him chide on, yours still, yours only, I Penelope Vlysses Wise will die. Yet by my Chast desires, and vertue bent, His temper does a little now relent. From Crete, and Samos, Rhodes, and Zant set out, To Court me come a wild unruly rout; Who Revel in your house without controul, And eat, and wast your means, our blood and soul Of Medon, Polybus, Pisander, fell Eurymachus, alas why should I tell? With many more, you (sadly out o'th 'way) Feed here, and on your substance let 'um prey. The Beggar Irus, and that Goat-heard Clown, Melanchius range and rummage up and down. So kept your house, such stout defenders we, A helpless Wife, old Man, and little Boy. Whom late by trech'ry we had well nigh lost, 'Gainst all our minds as he to Pylos crost. But Heavens preserve him till he die in cours, Having first clos'd mine eyes, and also yours. Thus the old Nurse, the Hind, and Hogheard pray; True Servants all, and faithful in their way. Disarm'd by age, Laertes is not fit, Amidst these Bullies to maintain your right. Age, if he lives, Telemachus may bring To strength, but yet he needs his Fathers wing. I, what am I? alas my help is small, Come you the strength and safety of us all. So may your Son in vertuous Arts encrease, So may the Old Laertes die in peace. Who in my Bloom did at your parting mourn, I wither'd grow, in waiting your return.

HYPSIPYLE to JASON. BY Mr. SETTLE. The ARGUMENT.

The Desire of gaining the Golden Fleece, put Jason upon a Voyage to Cholchos. In his passage, he stop'd at the Island of Lemnos, of which place Hypsipyle was then Queen, famed for her pious saving of her Father Thoas, in a general Massacre of the Men there by the Women of that Country. Her Entertainment of Jason so kind, as induced him to stay there two years, at the end of which he left the Island, and the Queen, (then big with Child;) and after a thousand Vows of Constancy, and a speedy return, persues his first intended Voyage, and arrives at Cholchos, where Aeta was King. Medea his Daughter falls deeply in Love with Jason, and by her Charms be gain'd the Golden Fleece; with which and Medea, he secretly saild home to Thessaly. Hypsipyle hearing of his Landing with her more happy Rival Medea, writes him this Epistle.

LAden, they say with Iasons Golden Prize, Proud Argo in Thessalia's Harbour lies. I would congratulate your safe return; But from your pen I should that safety learn. When from my slighted Coast you bore away, Spight of the winds; you show'd less Faith, than They. If't was too much t'enjoy my dearest Lord, Sure I deserv'd one Line, one tender word. Why did Fame first, and not their Conqueror, show, How Wars Fierce God saw his tam'd Bulls at Plough. How th'Earthborn Warriours rose, and how they fell By their own Swords, without your Conquering steel. How in your Charms the fetter'd Dragon lay, Whilst your bold hand bore the curld Gold away. When doubtful Tongues shall Iasons wonders tell, Would I could say, see here's my Oracle. But tho' unkind Loves silence I deplore, Your heart still mine, I would desire no more. But ah, that hope is vain;—a Witch destroys My fancied pleasures, and my promis'd Joys. Would I could say (but, oh, Loves fear's too strong!) Would I could say I guiltless Iason wrong. Lately a Guest came from th' Hemonian Land: My door scarce reacht, with transport I demand How fares my Iason? His sad look he bore, Fixt with an ominous silence on the floor. My Robes I tore, and thus, with Horrour, cry'd, Lives he! or with one wound both hearts must bleed? He lives, said he, to which I made him swear: He swore by Heav'n, yet I retain'd my Fear. My sense return'd to ask your Deeds, he said, That the yok'd Bulls of Mars in Chains you led. The Snakes own Teeth a crop of Heroes bore, Whil'st a rough native case their Limbs huskt o're. And by their own Intestine Fury slain; One Days short Age compleats their active Raign. Again I ask, does my dear Iason live? Such Ebbs and Flows Loves fears & hopes do give. He fatally proceeds, and with much Art, Would hide, yet shews the falseness of your heart. Ah, where's your Nuptial Faith, that flattering stile, Loves Torch more fit to light my Funeral pile! I have no lawless plea to Iasons Love; Iuno, and Hymen our just Chaplets wove: Ah no! not these mild Gods: Erynnis hand, At our curst Rites held her infernal Brand. Why to my Lemnos did your Vessel steer? Or why fond fool, did I admit you here? Here no bright Ram with golden glory shone, Nor was my Lemnos the Aetean Throne. At first— (but Fates all faint Resolves withstand) I thought t' expel you with a Female hand. The Lemnian Ladies are in Arms well skill'd: Their Guard had been my Lifes securest shield. But in my City, Roof, my soul received, For two blest years my darling Iason lived. Forc'd the third Summer to a sad Farewel, Mixt with his Tears these parting Accents fell. Do not at our divided Fates repine, Thine I depart, to return ever Thine. May our yet unborn pledge live long, to prove The object of its Rival Parents Love, 'Twixt sighs and Tears, thro' those false gales did pour These falser shours, till grief could speak no more. You were the last the fatal Argo reacht, Whose swelling Sails th' or • hasty winds had stretcht. The furrowing Keel the Seas green surface plough'd: You to the Shore, toth' Seas I gazing bow'd, In hast I ran to an adjacent Towr: My Tears ore all my face and bosom showr. There my wet Eyes my wafted soul pursue, And ev'n beyond their natural opticks flew. A thousand Vows for your return I made, You are return'd, and they should now be pay'd. My Vows for curs'd Medeas Triumphs pay! My Heart to Grief, my Love to Rage gives way. Shall I deck Temples, and make Altars shine, For that false man that lives, but lives not mine! I never was secure. 'Twas my long dread, You by your Fathers choice a Greek might wed. To no Greek Bride, t'an unexpected Foe, My wounds, I t' a Barbarian Harlot owe: One who by Spells, & Herbs does hearts surprize; Nor are her slaves the Trophies of her Eyes. She from her course the strugling Moon would hold, The Sun himself, in Magick shades infold. She curbs the Waves, and stops the rapid Floods, And from their seats removes whole Rocks and Woods. With her dishevell'd Hair the wandring Hag Does half-burnt Bones from their warm Ashes drag. In moulten wax, tho' absent, kills by Art, Arm'd with her Needle, goars a tortur'd Heart. Nay, what Desert and Form should only move, By Philters she secures her Iasons Love. How can you doat on such Infernal Charms, And sleep securely in a Syrens Arms? You, as the Bulls, she does to' her Yoke subdue, And as she tam'd the Dragons, Conquers you. Though your great Deeds, and no less Race you boast, Linkt to that Fiend your sullied Fame is lost. Nay by the censuring World 'tis justly thought, Your Conquests by her Sorceries were wrought; And the Phryxean Ram's Triumphant Oar, They say, not Iason, but Medea bore. This Northren Bride your Parents disapprove: Consult your Duty in your Nobler Love. Let some wild Scythian her loath'd bed possess, A Mistress only fit for Savages. Iason more false, more changeable than wind, Have Vows no weight, and Oaths no pow'r to bind? Mine you departed; ah, return mine too, Let my kind Arms their long lost Scenes renew. If high Birth, and great Names your Heart can turn, Know, I 'm the Royal Thoas Daughter born. Bacchus my Grandsire is, whose Bride divine, All lesser Constellations does out shine. My Dow'r These and my Fertil Lemnos make, All these, and me thy Equal Title take. Nay I'me a Mother: a kind Father be, And soften all the pains I've born for thee. Yes Heaven with Twins has blest our Genial Bed; And would you in their Looks their Father read, His treacherous smiles they are too young to wear, In all things else you'l find your picture there; I'had sent those Envoys in these Letters stead, Both for their own and Mothers wrongs to plead. Had not their Stepdames Murders bid e'm stay, Too dear a Treasure for that Monsters prey. Would her deaf Rage that rent her Brother's Bones, Spare my young blood, or hear their tenderer Groans? Yet in your Arms this dearer Traitress lies; Above my truth, you this false Poysoner prize. This mean Adultrate wretch was basely kind; Loves Sacred Lamp our chast embraces ioyn'd. Her Father she betray'd, mine lives by me, I Lemnos Pride, she Colchos Infamy. And thus her guilt my Piety outvies, Whilst with her Crimes her Dow'r your Heart she buyes. False man, I blame, not wonder at the Rage O'th' Lemnian Dames: Wrongs do all Arms engage. Suppose in vengeance to your Guilt, just Heav'n Had on my Shore the perjur'd Iason driven; Whilst I with my young Twins to meet you came, And made you call on Rocks to hide your shame. How could you look upon my Sons and Me? Traytor, what Pains, what Death too bad for Thee? Perhaps indeed I Iason had not hurt, But 'tis my mercy more than his Desert: The Harlots blood had sprinkled all the Place, Dash't in your faithless, and once charming Face. I to Medea, should Medea prove, And if Iove hears the pray'rs of injur'd Love, May that loath'd Hag that has my Bed enjoy'd; Be by my Fate, and her own Arts destroy'd. Like Me a Mother, and a Wife forlorn, 〈◊〉 from her Ravish't Lord, and Children torn. May her ill gotten Trophies never last, But round the World be th' hunted Monster chac'd. Those Dooms her Sire, and murder'd Brother met, May she t' her Husband and her Sons repeat. Driv'n from the World, let her attempt the skies, Till in Despair by her own hand she dies. Thus wrong'd Thoantias prays, your Lives curst Remnant lead, An Execrable Pair in a Detested Bed.

MEDEA TO JASON. BY Mr. TATE. The ARGUMENT.

Jason arrives with his Companions at Cho'chos where the Golden Fleece was kept, which before he can obtain, he is to undertake several Adventures; first to yoke the Wild Bulls, then to sow the Serpents Teeth, from whence should instantly rise an Army, with which he must encounter; and lastly, to make his passage by the Dragon that never slept. In order to this, he solicits Medea Daughter to the King, and skilful in Charms, by whose assistance (on Promise of Love) he gains the Prize. Then flies with her; the King pursues them, Medea kills her little Brother, scatters his Limbs, and whilst the King stays to gather them up, escapes with her Lover into Thessaly; where she restores decrepit Aeson to his Youth. On the same promise perswades Pelias his Daughters to let out their Fathers Blood, but deceitfully leaves them Guilty of Parricide. For this and other Crimes, Jason casts her off: Marries Crëusa Daughter to Creon King of Corinth, on which the enrag'd Medea, according to the various Transports of her Passion, writes this complaining, soothing and menacing Epistle.

YEt I found leisure, though a Queen, to free By Magick Arts thy Grecian Friends, & Thee: The Fates shou'd then have finisht with my Reign, The Life that since was one continued Pain. Who wou'd have dreamt the Youth of distant Greece, Shou'd e're have sail'd to seize the Phrygian Fleece! That th' Argo shou'd in View of Cholchos Ride! A Greecian Army stem the Phasian Tide! Why were those snares, thy Locks, so tempting made! A Tongue so False, so pow'rful to perswade! No doubt but He that had so rashly sought Our Shore, with the fierce Bulls unspell'd had fought, And fondly too th' Arms-bearing Seed had sown, 'Till by the Crop the Tiller were orethrown. How many Frauds had then expir'd with Thee! As many killing griefs remov'd from me! 'Tis some Relief when ill returns are made, With Favours done, th' Ingrateful to upbraid; This Triumph will afford some little Ease, False Iason leaves me This— When first your doubtful Vessel reacht our Port, And you had Entrance to my Fathers Court: There was I then, what now your new Bride's here, My Royal Father might with her's compare. With Princely Pomp was your arrival grac't, The meanest Greek on Tyrian Beds we plac't. Then first I gaz'd my Liberty away! And date my Ruin from that fatal day! Fate pusht me on, & with your Charms combin'd; I view'd your sparkling Eyes 'till I was blind. You soon perceiv'd, for who cou'd ever hide A flame that by its own Light is descry'd? But now thy Task's propos'd, & thou must tame The Bulls with brazen Hoofs, and Breath of Flame. With these the fatal field thou art to Plow▪ From whence a suddain Host of Foes must grow. Those dangers past, still to the golden Prey The baleful fiery Dragon guards the Way. Thus spake the King; your Knights start from the Feast, And ev'n your cheeks a pale despair confest. Where then was your ador'd Crëusa's Dow'r? And where her Father Creon's boasted Pow'r? Sad went'st thou forth; my pitying Eyes persue, I sigh'd, and after sent a soft Adieu! In restless Tears I spent that tedious night, Presenting still thy dangers to my sight; The Savage Bulls and more the Savage Host, But th' horrid Serpent did afright me most! Thus tost with Fear and Love, (Fear swell'd the Flame) My Sister early to my Apartment came; Sad and dejected she surpriz'd me There, With Eyes distilling and dishevelled Hair, On your behalf she sought me, nor cou'd crave My Aid for you, so freely as I gave! A Grove there is, an awful gloomy shade, Too close for ev'n the Sun himself t' invade; These Woods with great Diana's Fane we grac't, I'th' midst the Goddess on high Tripods plac't. There (if that place you can remember yet, Who have forgotten Me) 'twas there we met. Then thus in soft deluding sounds you said— " Take pitty on our sufferings, Royal Maid! " Rest pleas'd, Thou hast the Pow'r to Kill; but give " Proofs of Diviner Might, and make us Live! " By our distresses (which thy Art alone, " Has Pow'r to succour), By th' all-seeing Sun, " By the Chast Deity that Governs Here, " And what ere else you Sacred hold or Dear, " Take pity on our Youth, and bind us still " Eternal servants to Medea's Will! " And if a Strangers Form can touch your mind, " (If such blest Fate was ere for me design'd!) " This Flesh to Dust dissolve, this Spirit to Air, " When I think any but Medea Fair. " Be Conscious Iuno, witness to my Vow, " And this dread Goddess at whose Shrine we Bow. Your Charming Tongue stopt here, & left the rest, To be by yet more powerful Tears exprest. I yield—and by my Art instruct you now, To yoak the Brass-hooft Bulls, and make 'em Plow, Then with a daring Hand you sow the Field, That for an Harvest do's an Army yield; Ev'n I lookt pale, that gave the powerful Charms, To see the wondrous Crop of shining Arms! Till th' Earth-born Brothers in fierce battle join'd, Their suddain Lives more suddainly resign'd: The Serpent next, a yet more dangerous toil, With scaly Bosom Plows the yielding Soil, Oreshades the Field with vast expanded wings, And brandishes in Air his threatning Stings! Where was Crëusa at this needful Hour? (Dowr? Where then were her fam'd Charms & matchless Dowr? Medea, that Medea that is now Despis'd, thought Poor, held guilty too by You, 'Twas she that Charm'd the wakeful Dragons sight, Gave you the Fleece, and then secur'd your Flight: To merit you what cou'd I more have done? My Father I betray, my Country shun, And all the Hazards of an Exile run! Tho', whilst I yield me thus a Robbers Prize, My tender Mother in my Absence dies, And at her Feet my breathless Sister lies. Why left I not my Brother too?—cold fear Arrests my Hand, and I must finish Here! This Hand that tore the Infant in our Flight, What then it dar'd to Act, dreads now to Write. To the rough Seas undaunted I repair, For after Guilt, what can a Woman Fear? Why scap't our Crimes those Seas? we shou'd have dy'd; For falsehood Thou, and I for Parricide. The justling Isles shou'd there have dashtour Bones, And hung us piece-meal on the ragged stones; Or Scylla gorg'd us in her rav'nous Den, Wrong'd Scylla thus shou'd use ingrateful Men! Charybdis too shou'd in our Fate have shar'd, Nor ought of our sad wreck her Whirlpool spar'd. Yet safe we reach your Shore; the Phrygian Fleece Is made an Off'ring to the Gods of Greece. The Pelian Daughters pious Bloody Deed I pass, that rashly made their Father bleed; Your safety 'twas that drew me to this Fraud, The Guilt that Others Blame, you shou'd Applaud! But stead of Thanks, your Court I am Forbid: Your self forbad me, faithless Iason did! With none but my Two Infants I depart, And Iason's Form that nere forsakes my Heart; At length thy Rev'ling Nuptial Songs surprize My wounded Ear, thy Nuptial Torch my Eyes. The Rabble shout, the Clamour nearer drew, And as it came more near, more dreadful grew: My Servants weep in corners and refuse Th' ingrateful task of such unwelcome News! I yet forbear t' enquire, tho still my Breast The dreadful Apprehensions did suggest. My youngest Bo • now from the Window spy'd The coming Pomp, and jocund thus he cry'd, "Look, Mother, look! see where my Father Rides, "With shining Reins his golden Chariot Guides: At this, my pale forsaken Breast I tore, Norspar'd the Face whose Beauties charm no more Alas! what did I spare, scarce cou'd I spare My Honour, scarcely thee, cou'd scarce forbear To force my Passage to thy Chariot now, And tear the Garland from thy perjur'd Brow. Offended Father, now thy griefs discharge! My Brothers Blood is now reveng'd at large. The man (for whom I fled and injur'd Thee! Whose Love sole comfort of my Flight cou'd be) Th' ingrateful Man has now forsaken Me! I tam'd the Bulls, and cou'd the Serpent bind, But for perfidious Love no spell can find: The Dragons baleful Fires my Arts supprest, But not the Flames that rage within my breast. In Love my powerfull'st Herbs are useless made, In vain is Hecat summon'd to my Aid; I sigh the Day, the Night in watches spend, No slumbers on my careful brows descend: With Poppies juice in vain my Eyes I steep, And try the Charm that made the Dragon sleep. I only reap no Profit from my Charms! They sav'd, but sav'd Thee for my Rivals Arms! There, 'cause you know the Theam will grateful be, Perhaps y'are so Unjust to'exclaim on me! To tax my Manners, Rally on my Face, And make th' Adultress sport with my disgrace! Laugh on Proud Dame; but know thy Fate is nigh, When thou shalt yet more wretched be than I! When wrong'd Medea unreveng'd sits still, Sword, Flame, and Poyson, have forgot to Kill. If Pray'rs the flinty Iason's breast can move, My just Complaint will sure successful prove. Stretcht at thy Feet a suppliant Princess see; Such was thy Posture, when she Pitty'd Thee, And tho a Wife's discarded Title fail, My Infants still are Thine, let them prevail! So much th'are Thine, so much thy Likeness bear, Each Look I cast, is follow'd by a Tear. Now by the Gods, by all our past Delights, By those dear Pledges of our am'rous Nights, Restore me to thy Love; I claim my Due, Be to my Merit, and thy Promise True. I ask Thee not what I perform'd for Thee, To set me from fierce Bulls and Serpents Free; I only crave thy Love, thy Love restore, For which I've done so much, and suffer'd more. Do'st Thou demand a Dow'r?—'twas paid that day When thou didst bear the Golden Fleece away: The Life's my Dow'r, and thy dear Followers health, The Youth of Greece; weigh these with Creon's wealth. To Me thou ow'st that thou art Creon's Heir, That now thou liv'st to call Creusa, Fair! You've wrong'd me All, and on you All—but hold, I form Revenge too mighty to be told! My thoughts are now toth' utmost Ruin bent! Perhaps I shall the fatal Rage repent, But on—for I (what e're the mischief be) Shall less Repent than that I trusted Thee! The God alone that Rages in my Breast, Can see the dark revenge my thoughts suggest; I only know 'twill soon effected be, And when it comes, be Vast and Worthy Me.

PHAEDRA TO HIPPOLYTUS. BY Mr. OTWAY. The ARGUMENT.

Theseus, the Son of Aegeus, having slain the Minotaur, promised to Ariadne the Daughter of Minos and Pasiphäe, for the assistance which she gave him, to carry her home with him, and make her his Wife: so together with her Sister Phaedra, they went on Board and sail'd to Chios, where being warn'd by Bacchus, he left Ariadne, and Married her Sister Phaedra, who afterwards in Theseus her Husbands Absence, fell in Love with Hippolytus her Son in Law, who had Vow'd Caelibacy, and was a Hunter: wherefore since she could not conveniently otherwise; she chose by this Epistle to give him an Account of her Passion.

IF Thou'rt unkind, I ne're shall health Enjoy; Yet much I wish to thee, my Lovely Boy: Read this and reading how my soul is seis'd, Rather than not be with my ruin pleas'd: Thus secrets safe to farthest Shoars may move; By Letters Foes converse and learn to Love. Thrice my sad tale, as I to tell it try'd, Upon my faultring Tongue abortive dy'd: Long shame prevail'd, nor could be conquer'd quite, But what I blusht to speak, Love made me write. 'Tis dang'rous to resist the pow'r of Love, The Gods obey him, and he's King above: He clear'd the doubts that did my mind confound, And promis'd me to bring Thee hither bound: Oh may he come, and in that breast of thine Fix a kind Dart, and make it flame like mine! Yet of my Wedlock Vows I'le loose no care, Search back through all my fame, Thoul't find it fair▪ But Love long breeding, to worst pain does turn; Outward unharm'd, within, within I burn! As the Young Bull or Courser yet untam'd, When Yok't or Bridl'd first, are pinch't & maim'd; So my unpractic't heart in Love can find No rest, th' unwonted weight so toyls my mind. When young, loves pangs by Arts we may remove, But in our riper years with rage we Love. To thee I yield then all my dear Renown, And prithee let's together be undone. Who would not pluck the new blown blushing Rose, Or the ripe Fruit that Courts him as it grows? But if my Vertue hitherto has gain'd Esteem for spotless, shall it now be stain'd? Oh in thy Love I shall no hazard run; 'Tis not a sin, but when 'tis coursely done. And now should Iuno yield her Iove to me, I'd quit that Iove, Hippolytus, for Thee: Believe me too with strange desires I change, Amongst Wild Beasts I long with Thee to range, To thy Delights and Delia I Encline, Make her my Goddess too, because she's thine: I long to know the Woods, to drive the Deer, And or'e the Mountains tops my Hounds to chear, Shaking my Dart, then, the Chase ended, lie Stretcht on the grass, & would'st not Thou be by? O • t in light Chariots I with pleasure ride, And love my self the furious Steeds to guide. Now like a Bacchanal more wild I stray, Or Old Cybele's Priests, as mad as They When under Ida's Hill They Offrings pay: Ev'n mad as those the Deities of Night And Water, Fauns and Dryards do afright: But still each little Interval I gain, Easily find 'tis Love breeds all my pain: Sure on our Race Love like a Fate does fall, And Venus will have Tribute of us all. Iove lov'd Europa, whence my Father came, And to a Bull transform'd, Enjoy'd the Dame: She, like my Mother, languisht to obtain, And fill'd her Womb with shame as well as pain: The faithless Theseus by my Sisters Aid The Monster slew, and a safe Conquest made: Now in that Family my right to save, I am at last on the same tearms a slave: 'Twas fatal to my Sister and to me, She lov'd thy Father, but my choice was thee. Let Monuments of Triumph then be shown For two unhappy Nymphs by you undone. When first our Vows were at Eleusis pay'd, Would I had in a Cretan Grave been laid; 'Twas there Thou didst a perfect Conquest gain, Whilst Loves fierce Feavor rag'd in ev'ry vein; White was thy Robe, a Garland deck't thy Head, A modest blush thy comely face orespread, That face which may be terrible in Arms, But Graceful seem'd to me, and full of Charms: I Love the man whose fashion's least his care, And hate my Sexes Coxcombs fine and fair; For whil'st thus plain thy careless Locks let fly, Th' unpolish't form is Beauty in my Eye: If thou but ride, or shake the trembling Dart, I fix my Eyes, and wonder at thy Art: To see thee poise the Iav'lin, moves delight, And all thou do'st is lovely in my sight: But to the Woods thy cruelty resign, Nor treat it with so poor a life as mine: Must cold Diana be ador'd alone? Must she have all thy Vows, and Venus none? That pleasure palls if 'tis Enjoy'd too long, Love makes the weary firm, the feeble strong. For Cyntbia's sake unbend and ease thy Bow; Else to thy Arm 'twill weak and useless grow. Famous was Cephalus in Wood and Plain, And by him many a Boar and Pard was slain, Yet to Aurora's Love he did encline; Who wisely left Old Age for Youth like Thine. Under the spreading shades her Am'rous Boy The fair Adonis Venus could enjoy, Atlanta's Love too Meleager sought, And to her Tribute paid of all he caught; Be Thou and I the next blest Sylvan pair: Where Love's a Stranger Woods but Desarts are. With Thee through dang'rous ways unknown before, I'le rove and fearless face the dreadful Boar. Between two Seas a little Isthmus lies, Where on each side the beating Billows rise, There in Trazena I thy Love will meet, More blest and pleas'd than in my Native Crete. As we could wish, Old Theseus is away At Thessaly, where alwaies let him stay With his Perithöus, whom well I see Prefer'd above Hippolytus or me. Nor has he only thus exprest his hate; We both have suffer'd wrongs of mighty weight: My Brother first he cruelly did slay • hen from my Sister falsely ran away; And left expos'd to ev'ry Beast a prey. A Warlike Queen to thee thy Being gave, A Mother worthy of a Son so brave, From cruel Theseus yet her death did find, Nor though she gave him Thee, could make him kind. Unwedded too he murthered her in spight, To Bastardize and Rob thee of thy Right: And if to wrong thee more, two Sons Iv'e brought, Believe it his, and none of Phaedra's fault: Rather thou fairest Thing the Earth contains, I wish at first 'had dy'd of Mothers pains: How canst thou rev'rence then thy Fathers Bed, From which himself so Abjectly is fled? The thought afrights not me, but me enflames; Mother and son are notions, very Names Of worn out Piety, in fashion Then When Old dull Saturn Rul'd the Race of men: But braver Iove taught pleasure was no sin, And with his Sister did himself begin. Nearness of Blood, and Kindred best we prove, When we express it in the closest Love. Nor need we fear our Fault should be reveal'd; 'Twill under near Relation be conceal'd, And all who hear our Loves, with praise shall Crown A Mothers kindness to a grateful Son. No need at Midnight in the dark to stray, T'unlock the Gates, and cry, my Love, this way, No busie Spies our pleasures to betray. But in one house, as heretofore, we'l live, In publick, kisses take; in publick, give: Though in my Bed Thou'rt seen, 'twill gain Applause From all, whilst none have sense to ghess the Cause: Only make hast, and let this League be sign'd; So may my Tyrant Love to thee be kind. For this I am an humble Suppliant grown; Now where are all my boasts of Greatness gone? I swore I ne're would yield, resolv'd to • ight, Deceiv'd by Love that's seldom in the right, Now on my own, I crawl to clasp thy knees; What's Decent no true Lover cares or sees: Shame, like a beaten Souldier, leaves the place, But Beauties blushes still are in my face. For give this fond Confession which I make, And then some pity on my suffrings take. What though midst Seas my Fathers Empire lies? Though my Great Grandsire Thunder frō the skies? What though my Fathers Sire in Beams drest gay Drives round the burning Chariot of the day? Their Honour all in me to Love's a slave, Then though thou wilt not me, their Honour save: Ioves Famous Island Crete in Dow'r I'l bring, And there shall my Hippolytus be King: For Venus sake then hear and grant my pray'r, So may'st Thou never love a scornful fair; In Fields so may Diana grace Thee still, And every Wood afford thee Game to kill; So may the Mountain Gods and Satyrs all Be kind, so may the Boar before Thee fall, So may the water-Nymphs in heat of day, Though Thou their Sex despise, they thirst allay. Millions of tears to these my prayrs I joyn, Which as Thou read'st with those dear eyes of Thine, Think that thou seest the streams that flow from mine.

DIDO to AENEAS. BY Mr. DRYDEN. The ARGUMENT.

Aeneas, the Son of Venus and Anchises, having at the Destruction of Troy, saved his Gods, his Father and Son Ascanius from the Fire, put to Sea with twenty Sail of Ships, and having bin long tost with Tempests, was at last cast upon the Shore of Lybia, where Queen Dido, (flying from the Cruelty of Pigmalion her Brother, who had Killed her Husband Sichaeus,) had lately built Carthage. She entertained Aeneas and his Fleet with great civility, fell passionately in Love with him, and in the end denyed him not the last Favours. But Mercury admonishing Aeneas to go in search of Italy, (a Kingdom promised to him by the Gods,) he readily prepared to Obey him. Dido soon perceived it, and having in vain try'd all other means to engage him to stay, at last in Despair, writes to him as follows.

SO, on Maeander's banks, when death is nigh, The mournful Swan sings her own Elegie. Not that I hope, (for oh, that hope were vain!) By words your lost affection to regain; But having lost what ere was worth my care, Why shou'd I fear to loose a dying pray'r? 'Tis then resolv'd poor Dido must be left, Of Life, of Honour, and of Love bereft! While you, with loosen'd Sails & Vows, prepar▪ To seek a Land that flies the Searchers care. Nor can my rising Tow'rs your flight restrain, Nor my new Empire, offer'd you in vain. Built Walls you shun, unbuilt you seek; that Land▪ Is yet to Conquer; but you this Command. Suppose you Landed where your wish design'd, Think what Reception Forreiners would find. What People is so void of common sence, To Vote Succession from a Native Prince. Yet there new Scepters and new Loves you seek▪ New Vows to plight, and plighted Vows to break▪ When will your Tow'rs the height of Carthage know? Or when, your eyes discern such crowds below? If such a Town and Subjects you cou'd see, Still wou'd you want a Wife who lov'd like me. For, oh, I burn, like fires with incense bright; Not holy Tapers flame with purer light: Aeneas is my thoughts perpetual Theme: Their daily longing, and their nightly dream. Yet he ungreateful and obdurate still: Fool that I am to place my heart so ill! My self I cannot to my self restore: Still I complain, and still I love him more. Have pity, Cupid, on my bleeding heart; And pierce thy Brothers with an equal dart. I rave: nor canst thou Venus' offspring be, Love's Mother cou'd not bear a Son like Thee. From harden'd Oak, or from a Rocks cold womb, At least thou art from some sierce Tygress come, Or, on rough Seas, from their foundation torn, Got by the winds, and in a Tempest born: Like that which now thy trembling Sailors fear: Like that, whose rage should still detain thee here. Behold how high the Foamy Billows ride! The winds and waves are on the juster side. To Winter weather, and a stormy Sea, I'll owe what rather I wou'd owe to thee. Death thou deserv'st from Heav'ns avenging Laws; But I'm unwilling to become the cause. To shun my Love, if thou wilt seek thy Fate, 'Tis a dear purchase, and a costly hate. Stay but a little, till the Tempest cease; And the loud winds are lull'd into a peace. May all thy rage, like theirs, unconstant prove! And so it will, if there be pow'r in Love. Know'st thou not yet what dangers Ships sustain, So often wrack'd, how darst thou tempt the Main? Which, were it smooth; were every wave asleep, Ten thousand forms of death are in the deep. In that abyss the Gods their vengance store, For broken Vows of those who falsely swore. There winged storms on Sea-born Venus wait, To vindicate the Justice of her State. Thus, I to Thee the means of safety show: And lost my self, would still preserve my Foe. False as thou art, I not thy death design: O rather live to be the cause of mine! Shou'd some avenging storm thy Vessel tear, (But Heav'n forbid my words shou'd Omen bear,) Then, in thy face thy perjur'd Vows would fly; And my wrong'd Ghost be present to thy eye. With threatning looks, think thou beholdst me stare, Gasping my mouth, and clotted all my hair. Then shou'd fork'd Lightning and red Thunder fall, What coud'st thou say, but I deserv'd 'em all? Lest this shou'd happen, make not hast away. To shun the danger will be worth thy stay. Have pity on thy Son, if not on me: My death alone is guilt enough for thee. What has his Youth, what have thy Gods deserv'd, To sink in Seas, who were from fires preserv'd? But neither Gods nor Parent didst thou bear, (Smooth stories all, to please a Womans ear.) False was the tale of thy Romantick life; Nor yet am I thy first deluded wife. Left to pursuing Foes Crëusa stai'd, By thee, base man, forsaken and betray'd. This, whenthou told'st me, struck my tender heart, That such requital follow'd such desert. Nor doubt I but the Gods, for crimes like these, Sev'n Winters kept thee wandring on the Seas. Thy starv'd Companions, cast a Shore, I fed, Thy self admitted to my Crown and Bed. To harbour Strangers, succour the distrest, Was kind enough; but oh too kind the rest! Curst be the Cave which first my ruin brought: Where, from the storm, we common shelter sought! A dreadful howling eccho'd round the place, The Mountain Nymphs, thought I, my Nuptials grace. I thought so then, but now too late I know The Furies yell'd my Funerals from below. O Chastity and violated Fame, Exact your dues to my dead Husbands name! By Death redeem my reputation lost; And to his Arms restore my guilty Ghost. Close by my Palace, in a Gloomy Grove, Is rais'd • a Chappel to my murder'd Love. There, wreath'd with boughs and wool his Statue stands, The pious Monument of Artful hands: Last night, methought, he call'd me from the dome, And thrice with hollow voice, cry'd, Dido, come. She comes: thy Wife thy lawful summons hears: But comes more slowly, clogg'd with conscious fears. Forgive the wrong I offer'd to thy bed, Strong were his charms, who my weak faith misled. His Goddess Mother, and his aged Sire, Born on his back, did to my Fall conspire. O such he was, and is, that were he true, Without a blush I might his Love pursue. But cruel Stars my birth day did attend: And as my Fortune open'd, it must end. My plighted Lord was at the Altar slain, Whose wealth was made my bloody Brothers gain: Friendless, and follow'd by the Murd'rers hate, To forein Countrey's I remov'd my Fate; And here, a suppliant, from the Natives hands, I bought the ground on which my City stands. With all the Coast that stretches to the Sea; Ev'n to the friendly Port that sheltred Thee: Then rais'd these Walls, which mount into the Air, At once my Neighbours wonder, and their fear. For now they Arm; and round me Leagues are made My scarce Establisht Empire to invade. To Man my new built Walls I must prepare, An helpless Woman and unskill'd in War. Yet thousand Rivals to my Love pretend; And for my Person, would my Crown Defend▪ Whose jarring Votes in one complaint agree, That each unjustly is disdain'd for Thee. To proud Hyarbas give me up a prey; (For that must follow, if thou go'st away.) Or to my Husbands Murd'rer leave my life; That to the Husband he may add the Wife. Go then; since no complaints can move thy mind: Go perjur'd man, but leave thy Gods behind. Touch not those Gods by whom thou art for sworn; Who will in impious hands no more be born. Thy Sacrilegious worship they disdain, And rather wou'd the Grecian fires sustain. Perhaps my greatest shame is still to come; And part of thee lies hid within my womb. The Babe unborn must perish by thy hate, And perish guiltless in his Mothers Fate. Some God, thou say'st, thy Voyage does command: Wou'd the same God had barr'd thee from my Land. The same, I doubt not, thy departure Steers, Who kept thee out at Sea so many years. Where thy long labours were a price so great, As thou to purchase Troy wouldst not repeat. But Tyber now thou seek'st; to be at best When there arriv'd, a poor precarious Ghest. Yet it deludes thy search: perhaps it will To thy Old Age lie undiscover'd still. A ready Crown and Wealth in Dow'r I bring; And without Conqu'ring here thou art a King. Here thou to Carthage may'st transfer thy Troy; Here young Ascanius may his Arms emply: And, while we live secure in soft repose, Bring many Laurells home from Conquer'd Foes. By Cupids Arrows, I adjure thee, stay; By all the Gods, Companions of thy way. So may they Trojans, who are yet alive Live still, and with no future Fortune strive: So may thy Youthful Son old age attain, And thy dead Fathers Bones in peace remain, As thou hast pity on unhappy me, Who know no Crime but too much Love of thee. I am not born from fierce Achilles 'Line: Nor did my Parents against Troy combine. To be thy Wife, if I unworthy prove, By some inferiour name admit my Love. To be secur'd of still possessing thee, What wou'd • do, and what wou'd I not be! 〈◊〉 Coasts their certain seasons know, 〈◊〉 free from Tempests Passengers may go. But now with Northern Blasts the Billows roar, And drive the floating Sea-weed to the Shore. Leave to my care the time to Sail away; When safe, I will not suffer thee to stay. Thy weary Men wou'd be with ease content; Their Sails are tatter'd, and their Masts are spent: If by no merit I thy mind can move, What thou deny'st my merit, give my Love. Stay, till I learn my loss to undergo; And give me time to struggle with my woe. If not; know this, I will not suffer long; My life's too loathsome, and my love too strong. Death holds my pen, and dictates what I say, While cross my lap thy Trojan Sword I lay. My tears flow down; the sharp edge cuts their flood, And drinks my sorrows, that must drink my blood. How wellthy gift does with my Fate agree! My Funeral pomp is cheaply made by thee. To no new wounds my bosom I display: The Sword but enters where Love made the way. But thou, dear Sister, and yet dearer friend, Shalt my cold Ashesto their Urn attend. Sichaeus Wife let not the Marble boast, I lost that Title when my Fame I lost This short Inscription only let it bear, "Unhappy Dido lies in quiet here. "The cause of death, & Sword by which she dy'd, "Aeneas gave: the rest her arm supply'd.

The foregoing EPISTLE OF DIDO TO AENEAS. By Sir C. S. SO in unwonted Notes, when sure to die, The mournful Swan sings her own Elegy. I do not hope by this to change my Fate, Since Heaven and You are both resolv'd to Hate. Rob'd of my Honour, 'tis no wonder now That you disdain me when I meanly sue; Deaf to my Prayr's that you resolve to go, And leave th' unhappy you have rendred so. You and your Love, the Winds away must bear, Forgot is all that you so oft did swear: With cruel hast to distant Lands you Fly, Yet know not whose they are, nor where they lie. On Carthage and its rising Walls you frown, And shun a Scepter, which is now your own; All you have gain'd, you proudly do contemn, And fondly seek a fancied Diadem. And should you reach at last this promis'd Land, Who'l give its Power into a Strangers hand? Another easie Dido do you seek? And new Occasions new made Vows to break? When can you Walls like ours of Carthage build, And see your Streets with crowds of Subjects fill'd? But tho all this Succeeded to your Mind, So true a Wife no search could ever find. Scorch'd up with Loves fierce fire my Life does wast Like Incense on the flaming Altar cast, All day Aeneas walks before my sight, In all my Dreams I see him every night: But see him still Ingrateful as before, And such as, if I could, I should abhor. But the strong Flame burns on against my will, I call 〈…〉 Love the Traytor still. 〈…〉 Love, Thee all the World Adore! And shall thy Son slight thy Almighty Power? His Brothers stubborn soul let Cupid move, Teach me to Hate, or him to Merit Love! But the Impostor his high Birth did feign, (Tho to that Tale his Face did Credit gain,) He was not born of Venus, who could prove So Cruel, and so Faithless in his Love. From Rocks or Mountains he deriv'd his Birth! Fierce Wolves or Savage Tygers brought him forth! Or else he sprung from the Tempestuous Main, To which so eagerly he flies again. How dreadful the contending Waves appear! These Winter storms by force would keep you here. The Storms are kinder and the Winds more true! Let me ow Them, what I would ow to You. You'l shew your Hatred at too dear a rate, If to fly me, you run on certain Fate. Stay only till these raging Tempests cease, And breeding Halcyons all my Fears release. Then you perhaps may change your cruel Mind, And will learn Pity from the Sea and Wind. Are you not warn'd by all youv'e felt and seen? And will you Tempt the Faithless Floods again? Tho 'twere calm now, it would not long be so, Think, to what distant Countreys you would go. There's not one God who will that Vessel bless, Which Lies, and Frauds, and Perjuries oppress. The Sea let every faithless Lover fear, The Queen of Love Rose thence, & Governs there. Still the dear Cause of all my Ills I love, And my last words Heav'n for your safety move; That your false Flight may not as Fatal be To You, as your Dissembled Love to me. But in the Storm, when the huge Billows rowl, (Th'unlucky Omen may kind Heav'n controul,) Think what Distracted Thoughts will fill your soul. You'l then remember every broken Vow, With Horror think on Murdred Dido too. My Ghost all Pale and Ghastly shall be there, With Mortal wounds still bleeding I'le appear. Then you will own what to such Crimes is due, And think each Flash of Lightning aim'd at you. Your Cruel Flight till the next Calm delay, Your quiet passage will reward your stay. I beg not for my self, but do not joyn The Guilt of your Ascanius Death to mine. What has your Son, what have your Gods 〈◊〉 ? For a worse Fate were they from Flames 〈◊〉 ? But sure you neither sav'd them from the Fire, Nor on your shoulders bore your Aged Sire; But did Contrive that Story, to Deceive A Queen, so fond, so willing to Believe. Your ready Tongue told many a pleasing lie, Nor did it practice first these cheats on me. You by like Arts did fair Crëusa gain, And then forsook her with a like Disdain. I've wept to hear you tell that Ladies Fate, My self now justly more unfortunate. ▪Tis to Revenge these Crimes the Gods Engage, And make you Wander out your wretched Age. A Shipwrack'd wretch I kindly did receive, My Wealth & Crown to hands unknown did give. Had I stop'd there, I had been free from shame, And had not stain'd my clear and spotless Fame, Heaven to betray my Honour did Comply, When Thunder & black Clouds fill'd all the Sky, And made us to the fatal shelter fly. The Furies howl'd, and dire Presages gave, And shrieking Nymphs forsook the guilty Cave. I cannot live, that Crime torments me so, Yet full of shame to my Sichaeus go. In a fair Temple built by skilful hands, A Sacred Image of Sichaeus stands; With snowy Fleeces drest, & Garlands Crown'd, From thence of late Iv'e heard a dismal sound! Four times he call'd me with a hollow Voice, My loosn'd Joynts still tremble at the Noise! My dearest Lord your Summons I obey, 'Tis shame to meet you makes this short delay. Yet such a Tempter might the Crime excuse, His Heavenly Race, and all his Solemn Vows! The best of Fathers, the most Pious Son! Who could suspect he, who such things had done, So well had Acted all the parts of Life, Could have betray'd a Princess and a Wife? Had he not wanted Faith, your self must own He had Deserv'd to fill my Bed and Throne. In my first Youth what Cares disturb'd my Peace! And my Misfortunes with my Years encrease! My Husbands Blood was by my Brother spilt, And still his Wealth Rewards the prosperous Guilt: Through waies unknown a dangerous flight I take, His Ashes and my Native Soyl forsake; Here sheltred from my Brothers Crueltie, I bought this Kingdom, which I gave to Thee. My City did in Glory daily rise, Which all my Neighbours saw with envious Eyes. And Force against unfinish'd Walls prepare, Threatning a helpless Woman with a War. Those many Kings, who did my Bed desire, Now to revenge their slighted Love conspire. Go on, my People are at your Command, Give me up bound to some fierce Rivals hand: Assist my Cruel Brothers black Design, Drunk with Sichaeus Blood, he thirsts for min • . But then pretend to Piety no more, The False, and Perjur'd, all the Gods abhor. Even those you snatch'd from Troys devouring Flame, Are griev'd that from such hands their safety came. A growing Infant in my Womb you leave, Of your w • ole self, you cannot me bereave. You kill not Dido only, if you go, The Guiltless and unborn you Murder too. With me a new unknown Ascanius dies, Tho' deaf to mine, yet think you hear his Cries. But 'tis the God Commands, and you Obey, Ah! would that He who now forbids your stay, Had never led your shatter'd Fleet this way! And now this God Commands you out again T' endure another Winter on the Main! Scarce Troy restor'd to all her Ancient State, Were worth the seeking at so dear a Rate. Cease then through such vast Dangers to pursue A Place, which, but in Dreams, you never knew. In search of which, you your best years may wast, And come a Stranger there, and Old at last. See at your Feet a willing People lies, And do not offer'd Wealth, and Power despise. Fix here the Reliques of unhappy Troy, And in soft Peace, all you have sav'd, enjoy. But if new Dangers your Great Soul Desires, If Thirst of Fame your Sons young Breast inspires, You'l frequent Tryals here for Valour find, Our Neighbours are as rough as we are kind. By your dear Fathers Soul I beg your stay, By the kind Gods who hither blest your way, And by your Brothers Darts, which all Obey. So may white Conquest on your Troops attend, And all your long Misfortunes here take end. So with his Years may your Sons hopes encrease, So may A • chises Ashes rest in Peace. Some Pity let a suppliant Princess move, Whose only fault was an Excess of Love. I am not sprung from any Grecian Race, None of my Blood did your Lov'd Troy deface. Yet if your Pride think such a Wife a shame, I'le Sacrifice my Honour to my Flame, And meet your Love by a less Glorious name. I know the dangers of this stormy Coast, How many Ships have on our Shelves been lost. These winds have driv'n the floating Sea weed so, That your entangled Vessel cannot go. Do not attempt to put to Sea in vain, Till happier Gales have clear'd your way again. Trust Me to watch the Calming of the Sea, You shall not then, tho you desir'd it, stay. Besides your weary Seamen rest desire, And your torn Fleet now rigging does require. By all I suffer, all I've done for you, Some little respite to my Love allow. Time and calm Thoughts may teach me how to bear, That loss, which now alas 'tis death to hear. But you resolve to force me to my Grave, And are not far from all that you would have. Your Sword before me, whilst I write, does lie, And, by it, if I write in vain, I die. Already stain'd with many a falling Tear, It shortly shall another Colour wear. You never could an apter present make, 'Twill soon, the Life you've made uneasie, take. But this poor Breast has felt your Wounds before, Slain by your Love, your Steel has now no Power. Dear Guilty Sister, do not you deny The last kind Office to my Memory; But do not on my Funeral Marble Joyn Much wrong'd Sichaeus Sacred Name with mine. "Of false Aeneas let the Stone complain, "That Dido could not bear his fierce Disdain, "But by his Sword, and her own hand was slain.

BRISEIS to ACHILLES. BY IOHN CARYL Esq The ARGUMENT.

In the War of Troy, Achilles having taken and Sackt Chrynesium, a Town in the Lyrnesian Country, amongst his other Booty, he took two very fair Women, Chryseis, and Briseis: Chryseis he Presented to King Agamemnon, and Briseis he reserved for himself. Agamemnon after some time was forced by the Oracle to restore Chryseis to her Father, who was one of the Priests of Apollo; whereupon the King by violence took away Briseis from Achilles; at which Achilles incenst, left the Camp of the Grecians, and prepared to Sail home; in whose absence the Trojans prevailing upon the Grecians, Agamemnon was compell'd to send Ulysses, and others to offer him rich Presents, and Briseis: that he would return again to the Army: But Achilles with disdain rejected them all. This Letter therefore is writen by Briseis, to move him, that he would receive her, and return to the Grecian Camp.

CAptive Brisëis in a aforaign Tongue More by her blots, than words, set's forth her wrong And yet these blots, which by my tears are made, Above all words, or writing should perswade. Subjects (I know) must not their Lords accuse; Yet prayers and tears we lawfully may use. When ravisht from your Arms, I was the prey Of Agamemnons arbitrary sway; 〈…〉 , you must at last have left the Field, 〈…〉 , you too soon did yield. 〈…〉 Glory it must needs disgrace, 〈…〉 Summons to yield up the place. 〈◊〉 Enemies themselves, no less than I, • tood wondring at their easy Victory: I saw their lips in whispers softly move, Is this the Man so fam'd for Arms, and Love? Alas! A • hilles, 'tis not so, we part From what we love, and what is near our heart, No healing kisses to my grief you gave; You turn'd me off, an unregarded Slave. Was it your Rage, that did your Love suppress? Ah, love Briseis more, and hate A • rides less! He is not born of a true Hero's Race, Who lets his Fury of his Love take place: Tygers, and Wolves can fight: Love is the Test, Distinguishing the Hero from the Beast. Alas! when I was from your bosom forc'd, I felt my body from my soul divorc'd; A deadly paleness overspread my face; Sleep left my eyes, and to my tears gave place: I tore my hair, and did my death decree: Ah! learn to part with what you love, from me. A bold escape I often did essay, But Greeks, and Trojans too, block'd up the way: Yet tho a tender Maid could not break thrôw, Methinks, Achilles should not be so slow; Achilles, once the Thunderbolt of War, The hope of Conquering Greece, & Troy's despair, Me in his Rivals Arms can he behold? And is his Courage with his Love grown cold? But I confess, that my neglected Charms Did not deserve the Conquest of your Arms; Therefore the Gods did by an easier way Our wrongs attone, and Dammages repay: Ajax with Phoenix, and Vlysses bring Humble submissions from their haughty King: The Royal Penitent rich Presents sends, The strongest Cement to piece broken Friends: When Pray'rs well seconded with Gifts are sent, Both Mortal, and Immortal Powers relent: Twenty bright Vessels of Corinthian Brass, Their Sculpture did the costly Mine surpass; Seven Chairs of State of the same Art, and Mould, And twice five Talents of perswasive Gold. Twelve fiery Steeds of the Epirian breed, Matchless they are for beauty, and for speed; Six Lesbian Maids (but these I well could spare) Their Island Sackt, these were the General's share; And last a Bride, (ah! telle'm I am thine) At your own choice out of the Royal Line: With these they offer me: But, might I chuse, You should take me, and all their gifts refuse: But me, and those you sullenly reject; What have I done, to merit this neglect? Is it that You, and Fortune jointly vow, Whom you make wretched, still to keep them so? Your Arms my Country did in ashes lay. My House destroy, Brothers, and Husband slay: It had been kindness to have kill'd me too, Rather than kill me with unkindness now. With Vows as faithless, as your Mother Sea, You loudly promis'd, that you would to me, Country, and Brothers, and a Husband be. And is it thus, that you perform your Vow, Even with a Dowry to reject me too? Nay, Fame reports that with the next fair wind, Leaving your Honour, Faith, and me behind, You quit our Coasts: Before that fatal hour, May Thunder strike me, or kind Earth devour! I all things, but your absence, can endure! That's a disease, which Death must only cure. If to Achaia you will needs return, Leaving all Greece your sullen rage to mourn, Place me but in the number of your train, And I no servile Office will disdain: If I'm deny'd the Honour of your Bed, Let me at least be, as your Captive led: Rather, than banisht from your Familie I will endure another Wife to see; A Wife, to make the great Aeacian Line, Like Starry Heaven, as numerously shine; That so your spreading Progeny may prove Worthy of Thetis, and their Grandsire Iove. Let me on her an humble hand-Maid, wait; On her, because to you she does relate. I fear (I know not why) that she may be, Than to her other Maids, more harsh to me: But you are bound to guard your Conquer'd Slave, And to maintain the Articles you gave: Yet should you yield to her imperious sway, Do what you will, but turn me not away. But why should you depart? The King repents; The Grecian Army wants you in their Tents: You conquer all; Conquer your Passion too; Or else with Hector, you will Greece undo. Take Arms (Aeacides) but first take me, Your juster Rage let routed Trojans see. For me begun, for me your anger end; The fault I caus'd, let me have power to mend. In this to me you may with Honour yield, Rul'd by his Wife, Oenides took the Field. His Mothers Sacred Curses him disarm'd; But by his Wive's more powerful Spells uncharm'd, His Armour once put off, he buckles on, And fights and Conquers for his Calidon: That happy Wife prevail'd, why should not I? But you that Title, and my Power deny: Title and Power, and all ambitious strife. Of being call'd your Mistris, or your Wife, I quietly lay down; but I must have This Claim allow'd, to be your faithful Slave. I by those dread, ill-cover'd Ashes swear, (Alas their Tomb Lyrnesian Ruins are) Of my dead Spouse, and by each Sacred Ghost Of my three Brothers, honourably lost, Who for, and with their Country bravely fell; By all, that's awful both in Heav'n, and Hell. And last of all by thine own Head, and mine, Whom Love, though parted now, did sometimes joyn, That I preserve my Faith entire, and chast; That I no foraign love, or pleasure taste; That no aspersion can my Honour touch; O! that Achilles too could say as much! Some think he mourns for me; But others say, In Loves soft joyes he melts his hours away; That some new Mistris with Circean Charms • as lockt him up in her lascivious arms, And so transform'd from what he was before, That he will fight for Greece or Me no more. The Trumpet now to the soft Lute must yield, To Midnight Revels, Marches in the Field. He whom of late Greece, as her Mars, ador'd, He, on whose Massie Spear, and glittering Sword The Fates, and Death did wait, that mighty Man Now weilds a Busk, and brandisheth a Fan. Avert it Heaven! can he be only brave To wast my Country, not his own to save? And when his Arms my Family mow'd down, Lost he his sting, and so became a Drone? Ah! cure these fears; and let me have the Pride, To see your Javelin fixt in Hector's side. O! that the Grecians would send me to try, If I could make your stubborn heart comply: Few words I'd use, all should be sighs, and tears, And looks, and kisses, mixt with hopes, and fears: My Love like lightning throw my Eyes should fly, And thaw the Ice, which round your heart does lie: Sometimes my Arms about your neck I'd throw; And then embrace your knees, and humbly bow: There is more Eloquence in tears, and kisses, Than in the smooth Harangues of fly Vlysses: That noisie Rhetorick of a twanging tongue, Serves but to lug the heavy Crowd along: But Souls with Souls speak only by the Eye, And at those Windows one another spie: Thus, then your Mother Sea rai • 'd with the wind More fierce, I would compose your stormy mind; And my Love shining on my tears, that flow, Should make a Rainbow, and fair weather show. So dreams my Love. Ah! come, that I may try, If I can turn my Dream to Prophecie: So may your Pyrrbus live to equalize His Grandsire's years, his Fathers Victories. Let me no longer pin'd in absence lie; Rather than live without you, let me d • e: My heart's already cold, and Death do's spread His livid paleness o're my lively red. My life hangs only on the slender hope, That your reviving Love your rage will stop. If that shou'd fail, let me not linger on, But let that Sword (to mine ah! too well known) Me to my Brothers, and my Husband send; Your hand began, your hand the work must end. But why such Cruelty? come then, and save Afflicted Greece, and me your humble Slave. How much more decently might you employ Your ill-spent Rage against Neptunian Troy! Then furl your Sails, once more your Anchors cast; Leave not your Country, nor your Honour blast. But go, or stay; with you I ought to move, Made yours by Right of War, and Right of Love.

DEIANIRA TO HERCULES. The ARGUMENT.

Deianira having heard that Hercules was fallen in Love with Iole a Captive; and at the same time that he was dying by a poisoned Shirt she had presented him with, and had been told would recover a lost affection: betwixt disdain and anger for the first, and grief and despair for the latter, she writes the following Lines to her Husband.

I'Me pleas'd with the success your Valour gave▪ But grieve the Victor is his Captives slave. This unexpected News soon flew to me, And with your former Life does ill agree▪ Continual Action, nor yet Iuno's Hate, Ne're hurt whom Iole does Captivate▪ Eurystheus this, this did Ioves Wife design, Laugh at your weakness, and these tears of mine; But Iupiter hop'd better things, when he To make this Hero, made one night of three. Venus has hurt you more by her soft Charms, Than angry Iuno that Employs your Arms; She by depressing you, rais'd you the more, The other treads on you, whom you adore. You'vefreed the World from troublers of mankind, All things submit to your Heroick mind: You make the Seas secure, the Earth have rest, Your mighty Name fills both the East and West. Heaven, that must bear you, You did bear before▪ When weary Atlas did your aid Implore. Yet for all this, the greater is your shame, If with mean Acts you stain your Glorious Name. You kill'd two Serpents with your Infant hand, Which then deserv'd Ioves Scepterto Command. Your last deeds differ from your first success, The Infant makes the Man appear the less. No Savage Beasts, nor feircer Enemies, Cou'd Conquer him, whom Love does now surprize. Some think my Marriage a great Happiness, Being Ioves Daughter, Wife of Hercules; But as Extreams do very ill agree, The Greatness of my Husband lessens me: This seeming Honour gives a mortal wound: Amongst our Equalls Happiness is found: At home in quiet they their Lives enjoy; Tumults, and Wars, do all his hours employ: This Absence makes me so unfortunate, I buy your Glory at too dear a rate. I weary Heaven with Vows and Sacrifice, Least you should fall by Beasts, or Enemies. When you assault a Lyon, or Wild Boar, You hazard much, but I still hazard more. Srange Dreams and Visions set before mine Eyes, The dangers that attend your Victories. Unhappy I to vain Reports give Ear, Then vainly hope, and then as vainly fear. Your absent Mother blushes she pleas'd Iove, Amphitryos absent, and the Son you love. I see Erystheus has contriv'd your Fate, And will make use of Iuno's restless hat • . This I could bear, did you love none but me, But you are Amorous of all you see. Yet Omph • le does now enrage me more, Than all the Beauties you admir'd before. Meanders Streams have seen those shoulders wear Rich Chains, that Heav'n as a small weight did bear. But were you not ashamed to b • hold Those Arms weigh'd down with Jewels, and with Gold, That made the firce Nemean Lyon die, And wore his Skin to shew the Victory? When like a Woman you did dress your hair, Lawrel had been for you a fitter wear. As Wanton Maids, you thought it was no shame To wear a Sash to please your haughty Dame. Fierce D • omedes was not in your mind, That fed his bloody Horses with mankind: Did but Busiris see this strange disguise, The conquer'd would the Conquerour despise. Antëus would retreive his Captive State, And scorn a Victor so Effeminate. Among the Grecian Virgins you sit down, And spin, and tremble at a Womans • rown; A Distaffe, not a Scepter fills that Hand, That Conquer'd all things, and did all Command. Then in her presence you do trembling stand, And fear a blow as death, from her fair hand: And to regai • her Favour you reveal Those glorioous Actions you should then conceal. How you that strange and fruitful Serpent slew, That by his wounds more fierce & stronger grew. How when you fought, you never lost the field, But made great Kings and cruel Monsters yield. And can you boast or think of things so great, Now you wear Silks, and are with Jewels set? These Actions and that Garb do disagree, So soft a dress do's give your tongue the lie. Your Mistress too puts on your Conqu'ring Arms, And makes you stoop to her more pow'rful Charms. She wears your Robes to shew her Victory, And is, what you once thought your self to be. Your glorious Conquest, and Illustrious Fame, Give her Renown, but you Eternal Shame. All is to her, by whom you'r conquer'd, due; Go now and brag of what remains to you. Is't not a shame, that her soft Arms should bear The Lyons rugged Skin you once did wear? These Spoils are not the Lyons but your own, The Beast you Conquer'd, you she Overcome. She takes your Club up in her feeble hand, And in her Glass she learns how to Command. All this I heard: yet I could not believe The sad report, which causes me to griev • Your Iole is brought before my face, I must be Witness of my own disgrace. Whil'st I reflect on my unhappy Fate, She makes her Entry in the Town in State. Not as a Captive with her hair unbound, Nor her dejected Eyes • ixt on the Ground; But cover'd o're with Jewels, and with Gold, As Phrygia once did Hercules behold; And salutes all with as much Majesty, As if her Father had the Victory. Perhaps to leave me is design'd by you, True to your Mistress, to your Wife untrue. You'l be Divorc't from me, and Marry her, The Conquer'd must obey the Conquerour. This fear torments me more than all the rest, And as a Dagger, wounds my troubled Breast. • kn • w the time when you did love me more, Than any she whom you do now adore. But oh! as I am writing, the news flies, That by a poison'd Shirt my Husband dies. What have I done, whither has Love drove me? Is Love the Authour of such crueltie? Shall my dear Hercules endure this pain, And I, the unhappy Cause, alive remain? My Title to him, by my Death I'le prove, And surely Death's an Argument of Love. Meleager will a Sister find in me: Shall Deianira be afraid to die? Unhappy House! Usurpers fill the Throne, Whil'st the true Soveraign is esteem'd by none. One Brother wasts his Life in foreign Lands, The other perish'd by his Mothers hands, Who on her self reveng'd the Crime: Then why Should Deianira be afraid to die? Only this thing I beg with my last breath, Not to believe that I design'd your death. As soon as you struck Nessus with your Dart, His blood, he said, would Charm a straying heart. In it I dipt the Shirt, 'twas but to try: O Deianira make, make hast to die▪ Adieu my Father, Sister too adieu! Adieu my Country, and my Brother too! Farewel this light, the last that I shall see, Hyllus farewel, my Dear I come to Thee.

ACONTIUS TO CYDIPPE. BY Mr. R. DVKE. The ARGUMENT.

Acontius in the Temple of Diana at Delos, (famous for there sort of the most Beautiful Virgins of all Greece) fell in Love with Cydippe, a Lady of Quality much above his own; not daring therefore to Court her openly, he found this device to obtain her: He writes upon the fairest Apple that could be procured, a couple of Verses to this effect, I swear by chast Diana, I will be In Sacred Wedlock ever Joyn'd to Thee. and throws it at the feet of the young Ladie. She suspecting not the deceit takes it up, and reads it, and therein promises her self in Marriage to Acontius; there being a Law there in force, that whatever any person should swear in the Temple of Diana of Delos, should stand good and be inviolably observed. But her Father not knowing what had past, and having not long after promised her to another, just as the Solemnities of Marriage were to be perform'd, she was taken with a suddain and violent Feavour, which Acontius endeavours to perswade her was sent from Diana, as a punishment of the breach of the Vow made in her presence. And this, with the rest of the Arguments which on such an occasion would occur to a Lover, is the Subject of the following Epistle.

REad boldly this; here you shall Swear no more, For that's enough which you have Sworn before. Read it; so may that violent Disease, Which thy dear body, but my soul doth seise, Forget its too long practis'd Crueltie, And health to you restore, and you to me. Why do you blush? for blush you do, I fear, As when you first did in the Temple Swear: Truth to your plighted Faith is all I claim; And truth can never be the cause of shame. Shame lives with guilt, but you your virtue prove In favouring mine, for mine's a Husbands love. Ah! to your self those binding words repeat That once your wishing Eyes ev'nlong'd to meet, When th'Apple brought 'em dancing to your feet. There you will find the Solemn Vow you made, Which, if your health, or mine can ought perswade, You to perform should rather mindful be, Than great Diana to rev •• ge on Thee. My fears for you encrease with my desire, And Hope blows that already raging fire; For hope you gave; nor can you this deny, For the great Goddess of the Fane was by; She was, and heard, & from her hallowed Shrine A suddain kind Auspicious light did shine. Her Statue seem'd to nod its awful head, And give its glad consent to what you said; Now, if you please, accuse my prosperous cheat, Yet still confess 'twas Love that taught me it. In that deceit what did I else design, But with your own consent to make you mine? What you my Crime, I call my Innocence, Since Loving you has been my sole offence. Nor nature gave me, nor has practice taught The Nets with which young Virgins hearts are caught. You my accuser taught me to deceive, And Love, with you, did his assistance give; For Love stood by, and smiling bad me write The cunning words he did himself indite: Again, you see I write by his Command, He guides my Pen, and rules my willing hand, Again such kind, such loving words I send, As makes me fear that I again offend. Yet if my Love's my Crime, I must confess, Great is my Guilt, but never shall be less. Oh that I thus might ever guilty prove, In finding out new paths to reach thy Love. A thousand waies to that steep Mountain lead, Tho hard to find, and difficult to tread. All these will I find out and break through all, For with my Flames compar'd, the danger's small. The Gods alone know what the end will be, Yet if we Mortals any thing foresee, One way or other you must yield to me. If all my Arts should fail, to Arms I'le fly, And snatch by force what you my Prayers deny: I all those Heroes mighty Acts applaud, Who first have led me this Illustrious Road▪ I too • but hold, death the reward will be, Death be it then— For to loose you is more than death to me. Were you less fair, I'd use the vulgar way Of tedious Courtship, and of dull delay. But thy bright form kindles more eager fires, And something wondrous, as it self, Inspires; Those Eyes that all the Heavenly lights outshine, (Which Oh! may'st thou behold, & love in mine) Those snowy Arms, which on my neck should fall, If you the Vows you made, regard at all, That modest sweetness, and becoming Grace, That paints with living red your blushing face, Those feet with which they only can compare, That through the Silver flood bright Thetis bear: Do all conspire my madness to excite, With all the rest that is deny'd to • ight. Which could I praise, alike I then were blest, And all the storms of my vex'd soul at rest. No wonder then if with such Beauty fir'd, I of your Love the Sacred pledge desir'd. Rage now and be as angry as you will, Your very frowns all other smiles excel; But give me leave that anger to appease, By my submission, that my Love did raise. Your pardon prostrate at your feet I'le crave, The humble posture of your guilty Slave. With falling tears your fiery rage I'le cool, And lay the rising tempest of your soul. Why in my absence are you thu • severe? Summon'd at your Tribunal to appear, For all my Crimes, I'd gladly suffer there, With pride whatever you inflict receive, And love the wounds those hands vouchsafe to give. Your Fetters too—But they alas are vain, For Love has bound me, and I hug my Chain. Your hardest Laws with patience I'le obey, Till you your self at last relent and say, When all my sufferings you with pity see, He that can love so well, is worthy me. But if all this should unsuccessful prove, Diana claims for me your promis'd love. O may my fears be false! yet she delights In just revenge of her abused Rites, I Dread to hide, what yet to speak I dread, Least you should think that for my self I plead. Yet out it must,—'tis this, 'Tis surely this, That is the fuel to your hot disease: When waiting Hymen at your Porch attends, Her fatal Messenger the Goddess sends. And when you would to his kind call consent, This Feavour does your perjury prevent. Forbear, forbear thus to provoke her rage, Which you so easily may yet aswage. Forbear to make that lovely charming face The prey to every envious disease: Preserve those looks to be enjoy'd by me, Which none should ever but with wonder see: Let that fresh colour to your cheeks return, Whose glowing flame did all beholders burn. But let on him, th' unhappy cause of all The ills that from Diana's anger fall, No greater torments light than those I feel, When you my dearest, tendrest part are ill. For oh! with what dire Tortures am I wrackt, Whom different griefs successively distract! Sometimes my grief from this do's higher grow, To think that I have caus'd so much to you. Then, great Diana's witness, how I pray, That all our Crimes on me alone she'd lay! Sometimes to your lov'd doors disguis'd I come, And all around 'em up and down I roam. Till I your Woman coming from you spy, With looks dejected, and a weeping eye. With silent steps, like some sad Ghost I steal Close up to her, and urge her to reveal More than new questions suffer her to tell: How you had slept, what dyet you had us'd? And oft the vain Phisicians art accus'd. He every hour (Oh, were I blest as he!) Do's all the turns of your Distemper see; Why sit not I by your Bed side all day, My mournful head in your warm bosom lay, Till with my tears the inward fires decay? Why press not I your melting hand in mine, And from your pulse of my own health divine? But oh! these wishes all are vain; and He Whom most I fear, may now sit close by Thee, Forgetful as thou art of Heaven and me. He that lov'd hand do's press, and oft do's feign Some new excuse to seel thy beating vein. Then his bold hand up to your arm do's slide, And in your panting Breast it self do's hide; Kisses sometimes he snatches too from Thee, For his officious care too great a Fee. Robber, who gave Thee leave to tast that lip, And the ripe harvest of my kisses reap? For they are mine, so is that bosom too, Which false as 'tis, shall never harbour You. Take, take away those thy Adulterous hands, • or know another Lord that breast Commands. 'Tis true, Her Father promis'd her to Thee, But Heaven and she first gave her self to me. And you in Justice therefore should decline Your claim to that which is already mine. This is the man, Cydippe, that excites Dianas rage, to vindicate her Rites. Command him then not to approach thy door, This done, the danger of your death is o're. For fear not, Beauteous Maid, but keep thy Vow, Which great Diana heard, and did allow. And she who took it, will thy health restore, And be propitious as she was before. " 'Tis not the steam of a slain Heifers blood, " Than can allay the anger of a God. " 'Tis truth, and Justice to our Vows, appease " Their angry Deities, and without these, " No • laughter'd Breast their fury can divert; " For that's a Sacrifice without a Heart. Some, bitter Potions patiently endure, And kiss the wounding Lance that works their cure; You have no need these cruel cures to feel, Shun being perjur'd only, and be well. Why let you still your pious Parents weep, Whom you in ign'rance of your promise keep? Oh! to your Mother all our Story tell, And the whole progress of our Love reveal: Tell Her how first at great Dianas Shrine, I fixt my eyes, my wondring eyes on thine. How like the Statues there, I stood amaz'd, Whil'st on thy face intemp'rately I gaz'd. She will her self when you my tale repeat, Smile, and approve the Amorous deceit. Marry, she'll say, whom Heaven commends to thee, He who has pleas'd Diana, pleases me. But should she ask from what descent I came, My Country, and my Parents, and my name, Tell her that none of these deserve my shame. Had you not sworn, you such a one might choose; But were he worse, now sworn, you can't refuse. This in my dreams Diana Bad me write, And when I wak'd, sent Cupid to indite: Obey 'em both, for one has wounded me, Which wound if you with eyes of pity see, She too will soon relent that wounded Thee. Then to our joys with eager hast we'll move, As full of Beauty you, as I of Love. To the great Temple we'll in Triumph go, And with our Offerings at the Altar Bow. A Golden Image there I'le Consecrate, Of the false Apples innocent deceit; And write below the happy Verse that came, The Messenger of my successful flame; "Let all the World this from Acontius know, "Cydippe has been faithful to her Vow. More I could write, but since thy illness reigns, And wracks thy tender limbs with sharpest pains, My Pen falls down for fear, lest this might be Althô for me too little, yet too much for Thee.

CYDIPPE Her ANSWER To ACONTIUS. By Mr. BVTLER. IN silent Fear I read your Letter ore; Least I shou'd Swear as I had done before! Nor had I read, but that I fear'd t'engage By my neglect the pevish Goddess Rage: In vain I deck her Shrine, her Rites attend, The partial Goddess still remains your Friend. A Virgin rather shou'd a Virgin Aid, But where I seek Relief I am betray'd! I languish, and the Cause of my Disease As yet lies hid, no Medicine gives me Ease. In how much pain do I this Letter write! To my weak Hand my sicklier Thoughts indite: What anxious fear alas afflicts me too, Least any but my trusty Nurse shou'd know! To gain me time to write, the door she keeps, And whispering tells the Visitants, She Sleeps. Worse Ills I could not for your sake sustain, Tho you had merit equal to my Pain. Your Love betrays, my Beauty proves my Snare, I had been happy had I seem'd less Fair: Whilst with your Rival you contend to raise My Beauty's Fame, I perish by your Praise: Whilst neither will admit the others Claim, The Chase is hinder'd, and both miss the Game. My Nuptial day draws on, my Parents press The Sacred Rights, my blooming years no less. But whilst glad Hymen at my door attends, Grim Death waits near to force me from his Hands. Some call my Sickness Chance, and some pretend The Gods this Lett to cross my Nuptials send; Whilst by severer Censure you are ghest, By Philtra's, to have wrought upon my Breast. If then your love such mischief can create, What Miserie is reserv'd for her you Hate! Wou'd I to Delos nere had found the way, At least not found it on that fatal Day! When in our Port our Anchors first we weigh'd, Th' unwilling Vessel still i'th Harbour staid; Twice did cross winds beat back our flagging Sails, Said I, cross winds? no! those were prosprous Gales! Those winds alone blew fair, that back convey'd Our Ship, and those that oft our Passage stay'd. Yet I to see sam'd Delos am in pain, And fondly of each hindring blast complain. By Tenos Isle, and Mycone we Steer'd, At last fair Delos winding Clifts appear'd; And much I fear left now the Fairy Shore, Shou'd vanish, as 'tis said t'have done before. At night we Land, soon as the day return'd My platted Tresses are with Gemms adorn'd. Then to attend the Sacred Rites we go, And pious Incense on each Altar throw, My Parents there at their Devotion stay; My Nurse and I through all the Temple stray: We view each Court, & each, fresh wonder brings; Pictures, and Statues, Gifts of Ancient Kings. But whilst into these Rarities I pry'd, I am my self by • ly Acontius spy'd. Thence to the inmost Temple we remove, The place that should a Sanctuary prove. Yet there I find the Apple with this Rhime— Ah! me, I'de like to have Sworn the second time! The Name of Wedlock I no sooner read, But through my Cheeks a troubled blush was spread. Why didst Thou Cheat an unsuspecting Maid? I shou'd have been entreated, not betray'd: Is then the Goddess bound to take thy part? And ratifie an Oath without the Heart? The Will Consents, but that was Absent There; I read indeed the Oath, but did not Swear. Yet cannot I deny that I suspect Dianas Rage this Sickness do's inflict; Glad Hymen thrice did to our Courts repair, Thrice frighted fled to find Death planted there. Thin Cov'rings on my Feaverish Limbs are spread, My Parents mourn me as already Dead. What have I done to merit this distress, That read but words whose fraud I cou'd not ghess! Do Thou, ev'n Thou from whom my suffrings spring, T'appease the Goddess Rage thine Offrings bring. When will those Hands that writ the fatal Rhime, Bear Incense to remove my Pain, thy Crime! Nor think that thy rich Rival tho' allow'd To Visit, is of greater Favours proud. By me he sits, but still just distance keeps, Restless as I, Talks seldom, often weeps: Blushing he takes a Kiss, and leaves a Tear, And once his Courage serv'd to Cry—My Dear. But from his Arms still by Degrees I creep, And to prevent Discourse pretend to sleep. He finds, but wou'd his sense o'th flight disguise, He checks his Tongue, butchides me with his Eyes. With grief he wasts, and I with Feavours pine, 'Tis we that suffer, but th' Offence was Thine. You write for leave to come and see me Here, Yet know your former Visit cost me Dear. Why wouldst thou hither come, thou canst but see The double Trophies of thy Cruelty. My flesh consum'd, my Cheeks of bloodless Hue, Such as I once did in thy Apple view, Shou'dst see me now thou woud'st repent thy cheat, Nor think me worth such exquisite Deceit. To Delos back with greater hast wou'dst go, And beg the Goddess to release my Vow, On new designs thy fancy would'st employ, Contrive new Oaths the former to destroy. No Means have been omitted to procure My health, but still my Feav'rish Fits endure. We ask'd the Oracle what caus'd my Pains? The Oracle of broken Vows complains! The Gods themselves on your behalf declare: What hast thou done to merit this their Care? But so it is—and I at last incline, Since that Thou art their Choice, to make Thee Mine. Already to my Mother I've declar'd, How by your Cunning I have been ensnar'd. I've done, and what I have already said, I fear is more than will become a Maid. My Thoughts are now confus'd, and can indite No more, my feeble hand no more can write. Nor need I more subscribe, but this, Be True! And (since it must be so) my Dear Adieu. FINIS.