From your command her motions the receiv'd;
And not for me, but you, fhe 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 kindnefs my defires are crown'd.

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 blifs,
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 feas of rapture borne ;
A melancholy tear afflicts my eye,
And my heart labours with a sudden sigh ;
Invading fears repel my coward joy,
And ills forefeen the prefent bliss destroy.
Poor as it is, this beauty was the cause,
That with firft fighs your panting bofom rofe:
But with no owner Beauty long will stay,
Upon the wings of Time borne swift away;
Pafs but fome fleeting years, and thefe poor eyes
(Where now without a boaft fome luftre lies)
No longer fhall their little honours keep;
Shall only be of use to read or weep:

And on this forehead, where your verse has said,
The Loves delighted, and the Graces play'd,

Infulting age will trace his cruel way,

And leave fad marks of his destructive sway.
Mov'd by my charms, with them your love may cease,
And as the fuel finks, the flarne decrease:

Or angry heaven may quicker darts prepare,
And fickness strike what time a while would fpare.
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,
Whose smoke too long obfcur'd your rifing name;
And quickly cold indifference will ensue,
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 afcends,
With mufic gay, and wet with jovial friends,
The tender accent of a woman's cry
Will pafs unheard, will unregarded die;
When the rough seaman'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 the who wrote them, of all joy bereft,
To the rude cenfure of the world is left;
Her mangled fame in barbarous pastime loft,
The coxcomb's novel, and the drunkard's toaft.
But nearer care (O pardon it!) supplies
Sighs to my breaft, and forrow to my eyes.
Love, Love himself (the only friend I have)
May scorn his triumph, having bound his flave.
That tyrant-god, that reftlefs conqueror,
May quit his pleasure, to affert his power;
Forfake the provinces that bless his fway,
To vanquish those which will not yet obey.
Another Nymph with fatal power may rise,
To damp the finking beams of Celia's eyes;
With haughty pride may hear her charms confeft,
And scorn the ardent vows that I have bleft.
You every night may figh for her in vain,
And rife each morning to some fresh disdain:
While Celia's fofteft 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 sheds,
Sprigs of like leaf erect their filial heads :
And when the parent rose decays and dies,
With a refembling face the daughter-buds arife.

That product only which our paffions bear
Eludes the planter's miserable care.

While blooming Love affures us golden fruit,
Some inborn poifon taints the fecret foot;

Soon fall the flowers of Joy, foon feeds of Hatred fhoot.

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 bofom fhall I ne'er be torn?

Or you grow cold, respectful, and forsworn?
And can you not for her you love do more
Than any youth for any nymph before?

PROLOGUE fpoken by LORD BUCKHURST, in WESTMINSTER-SCHOOL,

at a reprefentation of Mr. DRYDEN'S CLEOMENES, at Christmas, 1695.

PISH, lord, I with this prologue was but Greek,
Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak:

But can lord Buckhurft in poor English say,
Gentle fpectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye Gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condefcend to terms like these,

I'd go to school 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 rogues, that fmart like fencers for their bread,
And, if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends :

Our generous fcenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you 're treated.
The candles and the cloaths ourfelves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts, we left our midnight bed,
Most of you fnor'd whilft Cleomenes read ;
Not that from this confeffion we would fue
Praise undeserv'd; we know ourselves and you :
Refolv'd to ftand or perish by our caufe,
We neither cenfure fear, nor beg applause,
For these are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet, if we fee fome judgement well inclin❜d,
To young defert, and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thoufand marks fhould know,
That greatest fouls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorfet's fpirit.

}

An