WHAT can I fay, what arguments can prove

My truth, what colours can defcribe my love,

If its excefs and fury be not known,

In what thy Celia has already done?

Thy infant flames, whilft yet they were conceal'd
In timorous doubts, with pity I beheld;
With eafy fmiles difpell'd the filent fear,
That durft not tell me what I dy'd to hear.
In vain I ftrove to check my growing flame,
Or fhelter paffion under friendship's name,
You faw my heart, how it my tongue bely'd;
And when you prefs'd, how faintly I deny’'d.—
Ere guardian thought could bring its scatter'd aid,
Ere reafon could support the doubting maid,
My foul, furpris'd, and from herself disjoin'd,
Left all referve, and all the sex, behind:
From your command her motions fhe receiv'd;
And not for me, but you, she breath'd and liv'd.
But ever bleft be Cytherea's fhrine,

And fires eternal on her altars fhine!
Since thy dear breast has felt an equal wound;
Since in thy kindness my defires are crown'd.

By

By thy each look, and thought, and care, 'tis shown, Thy joys are center'd all in me alone

;

And fure I am, thou wouldst not change this hour
For all the white ones Fate has in its power.
Yet thus belov'd, thus loving to excefs,
Yet thus receiving and returning bliss,
In this great moment, in this golden now,
When every trace of what, or when, or how,
Should from my foul by raging love be torn,
And far on fwelling seas of rapture borne ;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,

And my
heart labours with a sudden figh;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills forefeen the prefent blifs destroy.

Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause,
That with firft fighs your panting bofom rose :
But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away;
Pass but fome fleeting years, and these poor eyes
(Where now without a boast some lustre lies)
No longer shall their little honours keep;
ball only be of use to read or weep:

And on this forehead, where your verse has faid,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,
Infulting age will trace his cruel

way,

And leave fad marks of his deftructive sway.
Mov'd by my charms, with them your
love may cease,
And as the fuel finks, the flame decrease :
Or angry Heaven may quicker darts prepare,
And fickness strike what time a while would spare.

Then

Then will my fwain his glowing vows renew;
Then will his throbbing heart to mine beat true;
When my own face deters me from my glass,
And Kneller only fhews what Celia was?

Fantastic Fame may found her wild alarms;
Your country, as you think, may want your arms.
You may neglect, or quench, or hate the flame,
Whofe fmoke too long obscur'd your rifing name;
And quickly cold indifference will enfue,
When you Love's joys through Honour's optic view.
Then Celia's loudeft prayer will prove too weak,
To this abandon'd breast to bring you back;
When my loft lover the tall ship ascends,
With music gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accent of a woman's cry
Will pafs unheard, will unregarded die;

When the rough seamen's louder shouts prevail,
When fair occafion fhews the springing gale,
And Intereft guides the helm, and Honour fwells
the fail.

Some wretched lines, from this neglected hand, May find my hero on the foreign ftrand,

Warm with new fires, and pleas'd with new com mand:

While fhe who wrote them, of all joy bereft,
To the rude cenfure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barbarous paftime loft,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toast.

But nearer care (O pardon it!) fupplies
Sighs to my breast, and forrow to my eyes.

Love,

Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)
May scorn his triumph, having bound his flave.
That tyrant-god, that restless conqueror,
May quit his pleasure, to affert his power;
Forfake the provinces that blefs his sway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.
Another Nymph with fatal power may rife,
To damp the finking beams of Celia's eyes;
With haughty pride may hear her charms confest,
And fcorn the ardent vows that I have bleft.
You every night may figh for her in vain,
And rise each morning to some fresh disdain:
While Celia's foftest look may cease to charm,
And her embraces want the power to warm:
While these fond arms, thus circling you, may prove
More heavy chains than those of hopeless love.
Juft Gods! all other things their like produce;
The vine arifes from her mother's juice:
When feeble plants or tender flowers decay,
They to their feed their images convey :
Where the old myrtle her good influence fheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads :
And when the parent rofe decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
That product only which our paffions bear
Eludes the planter's miserable care.

While blooming Love affures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poison taints the secret root:

Soon fall the flowers of Joy, foon feeds of Hatred

fhoot.

Say,

Say, fhepherd, fay, are these reflections true?
Or was it but the woman's fear that drew
This cruel scene, unjust to love and you?
Will you be only and for ever mine?
Shall neither time nor age our fouls disjoin?
From this dear bosom shall I neʼer be torn?
Or you grow cold, refpectful, and forfworn?
And can you not for her you love do more
Than any youth for any nymph before ?

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY LORD BUCKHURST, IN WESTMINSTER

SCHOOL,

AT A REPRESENTATION OF MR. DRYDEN'S CLEOMENES AT CHRISTMAS 1695.

DISH, lord, I wish this prologue was but Greek,

PI

Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:
But can lord Buckhurst in poor English say,
Gentle fpectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd go to fchool fix hours on Christmas-day,
Or conftrue Perfius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they fee a critic frown;

Poor