My Heart fhall own the Juftice of her Cause,
And Love himself submit to Friendship's Laws.
But if beneath thy Number's foft Difguife,
Some favour'd Swain, fome true Alexis lyes,
If Amaryllis breathes thy fecret Pains,
And thy fond Heart beat Measure to thy Strains,
May'ft thou, howe'er I grieve, for ever find
The Flame propitious, and the Lover kind:
May Cytherea make her Conqueft fure,
And let thy Beauty like thy Verse endure.
May ev'ry God his friendly Aid afford,
Pan guard thy Flock, and Ceres blefs thy Board.
Yet, if amidst the Series of these Joys,
One fad Reflection should by chance arife,
Give it, in Pity, to the wretched Swain,
Who loving much, who not belov'd again,
Felt an ill-fated Paffion's laft Excels,
And dy'd in Woe, that thou might'ft live in Peace.
DELIA. A Paftoral Eclogue; lamenting the Death of Mrs. TEMPEST, who dy'd upon the Day of the late Storm.
YE gentle Swains! who pass your Days and Nights
In Love's fincere and innocent Delights!
Ye, tender Virgins, who with Pride display
Your Beauty's Splendor, and extend your Sway!
Lament with me! with me your Sorrows join!
And mingle your united Tears with mine!
Delia, the Queen of Love, let all deplore!
Delia, the Queen of Beauty, now no more!
Begin, my Mufe! begin your mournful Strains! Tell the fad Tale through all the Hills and Plains! Tell it through ev'ry Lawn, and ev'ry Grove! Where Flocks can wander, or where Shepherds rove!
Bid neighb'ring Rivers tell the diftant Sea,
And Winds from Pole to Pole the News convey!
Delia, the Queen of Love, let all deplore!
Delia, the Queen of Beauty's now no more!
'Tis done, and all obey the mournful Mufe! See, Hills, and Plains, and Winds have heard the News! The foaming Sea o'erwhelms the frighten'd Shoar, The Vallies tremble, and the Mountains roar. See lofty Oaks from firm Foundations torn, And Stately Tow'rs in Heaps of Ruin mourn! The gentle Thames, that rarely Paffion knows, Swells with this Sorrow, and her Banks o'erflows: What Shrieks are heard? what Groans? what dying Ev'n Nature's felf in dire Convulfion lyes! Delia, the Queen of Love, they all deplore! Delia, the Queen of Beauty's now no more! Oh! why did I furvive the Fatal Day, That fnatch'd the Joys of all my Life away? Why was not I beneath fome Ruin loft? Sunk in the Seas, or Shipwreck'd on the Coaft? Why did the Fates fpare this devoted Head? Why did I live to hear that thou wert dead?
By thee my Griefs were calm'd, my Torments eas'd;
Nor knew I Pleasure, but as thou wert pleas'd.
Where shall I wander now, diftress'd, alone?
What ufe have I of Life, now thou art gone?
I have no use, alas! but to deplore
Delia, the Pride of Beauty, now no more.
What living Nymph is bless'd with equal Grace?
All may difpute, but who can fill thy Place?
What Lover in his Mistress hopes to find
A Form so lovely, with fo bright a Mind?
Doris may boast a Face divinely Fair,
But wants thy Shape, thy Motions, and thy Air,
Lucinda has thy Shape, but not those Eyes,
That while they did th'admiring World furprize,
Difclos'd the fecret Luftre of thy Mind,
And feem'd each Lover's inmoft Thoughts to find.
Others, whofe Beauty yielding Swains confefs,
By Indiscretion make their Conqueft lefs,
And want thy Conduct and obliging Wit,
To fix thofe Slaves who to their Charms fubmit.
As fome Rich Tyrant hoards an useless Store,
That wou'd, well plac'd, enrich a thousand more:
So didft thou keep a Crowd of Charms retir'd,
Wou'd make a thousand other Nymphs admir'd,
Gay, modeft, artless, beautiful, and young;
Slow to refolve, in Resolution strong;
To all obliging, yet referv'd to all,
None cou'd himfelf the favour'd Lover call;
That which alone cou'd make his Hopes endure,
Was, that he faw no other Swain fecure.
Whither, ah! whither are thofe Graces fied?
Down to the dark, the melancholy Shade?
Now, Shepherds, now lament! and now deplore!
Delia is dead, and Beauty is no more!
For thee each tuneful Swain prepar'd his Lays,
His Fame exalting, while he fung thy Praife.
Thyrfis, in gay and eafie Measures, ftrove
To charm thy Ears, and tune thy Soul to Love:
Menalcas, in his Numbers more fublime,
Extoll'd thy Virtues in Immortal Rhime.
Glycon, whofe Satyr kept the World in Awe,
Softning his Strain, when first thy Charms he faw,
Confefs'd the Goddess that new-form'd his Mind,
Proclaim'd thy Beauties, and forgot Mankind,
Ceafe,Shepherds, ceafe; the Charms you fung are fled!
The Glory of our Blafted Ifle is dead!
Now join your Griefs with mine! and now deplore
Delia, the Pride of Beauty, now no more!
Behold where now She lyes, depriv'd of Breath!
Charming tho' pale, and beautiful in Death!
A Troop of weeping Virgins by her Side;
With all the Pomp of Woe, and Sorrow's Pride!
Oh, early loft! Oh, fitter to be led
In cheerful Splendor to the Bridal Bed!
Than thus conducted to th' untimely Tomb,
A fpotless Virgin, in her Beauty's Bloom!
Whatever Hopes fuperior Merit gave,
Let me, at leaft, embrace thee in the Grave:
On thy cold Lips imprint a dying Kiss:
Oh! that thy Coyness cou'd refuse me this!
Such melting Tears upon thy Limbs I'll pour,
Shall thaw their Numbness, and thy Warmth restore;
Clafp'd to my glowing Breaft, thou may'ft revive;
I'll breathe fuch tender Sighs fhall make thee live.
Or if feverer Fates that Aid deny,
If thou canst not revive, yet I may die.
In one cold Grave together may be laid
The Trueft Lover, and the Lovelieft Maid.
Then fhall I ceafe to grieve, and not before;
Then fhall I ceafe fair Delia to deplore.
But fee, thofe dreadful Objects difappear!
The Sun fhines out, and all the Heav'ns are clear:
The warring Winds are husht, the Sea's ferene;
And Nature foften'd fhifts her angry Scene.
What means this fudden Change? Methinks I hear
Melodious Mufick from the Heav'nly Sphere!
Liften, ye Shepherds, and devour the Sound!
Liften! The Saint, the Lovely Saint is Crown'd!
While we, miftaken in our Joy and Grief,
Bewail her Fate, who wants not our Relief:
From the pleas'd Orbs the views us here below,
And with kind Pity wonders at our Woe.
Ah, Charming Saint! fince thou art Bless'd above, Indulge thy Lovers, and forgive their Love. Forgive their Tears; who, prefs'd with Grief and Care, Feel not thy Joys, but feel their own Despair!
PROLOGUE to the University of OXFORD, 1681.
"HE fam'd Italian Muse, whose Rhymes advance
Orlando, and the Paladins of France,
Records, that when our Wit and Sense is flown,
'Tis lodg'd within the Circle of the Moon
In Earthen Jars, which one, who thither foar'd,
Set to his Nofe, fnufft up, and was reftor'd.
What e'er the Story be, the Moral's true,
'The Wit we loft in Town, we find in you.
Our Poets their fled Parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy Heads with sober Sense.
When London Votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long loft Loyalty.
Here bufie Senates, to th' old Caufe inclin❜d,
May fnuff the Votes their Fellows left behind:
Your Country Neighbours, when their Grain grows
May come and find their laft Provision here:
Whereas we cannot much lament our Lofs,
Who neither carry'd back, nor brought one Crofs;
We look'd what Reprefentatives wou'd bring,
But they help'd us, juft as they did the King.
Yet we despair not, for we now lay forth
The Sibyll's Books, to those who know their Worth:
And tho' the firft was Sacrific'd before,
These Volumes doubly will the Price restore.
Our Poet bade us hope this Grace to find,
To whom by long Prescription you are kind.
He, whofe undaunted Mufe, with Loyal Rage,
Has never fpar'd the Vices of the Age,
Here finding nothing that his Spleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his Satyr into Praise,
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