Hold up your head: hold up your hand :
Would it were not my lot to fhew ye
This cruel writ, wherein you ftand
Indicted by the name of Cloe!
For that, by fecret malice ftirr'd,
Or by an emulous pride invited,
You have purloin'd the favourite bird,
In which my mother most delighted.
XX.
Her blushing face the lovely maid
Rais'd just above the milk-white sheet;
A rose-tree in a lily bed
Nor glows fo red, nor breathes fo fweet,
XXI.
Are you not he whom virgins fear,
And widows court? is not your name
Cupid? If fo, pray come not near
Fair maiden, I'm the very fame.
XXII.
Then what have I, good fir, to fay,
Or do with her you call your mother?
If I fhould meet her in my way,
We hardly court'fy to each other.
XXIII.
Diana chafte, and Hebe fweet,
Witness that what I speak is true :
I would not give my Paroquet
For all the Doves that ever flew.
Yet, to compofe this midnight noife,
Go freely fearch where-e'er you please
that rais'd, adorn'd her voice)—
Upon yon' toilet lie my keys.
Her keys he takes; her doors unlocks;
Through wardrobe and through closet bounces;
Peeps into every cheft and box;
Turns all her furbeloes and flounces.
But Dove, depend on't, finds he none;
So to the bed returns again :
And now the maiden, bolder grown,
Begins to treat him with difdain.
XXVII.
I marvel much, she fmiling said,
Your poultry cannot yet be found :
Lies he in yonder slipper dead?
Or, may be, in the tea-pot drown'd?
XXVIII.
No, traitor, angry Love replies,
He's hid fomewhere about your breaft;
A place nor god nor man denies,
For Venus' Dove the proper neft.
XXIX.
Search then, the faid, put in your hand,
And Cynthia, dear protectress, guard me :
As guilty I, or free, may ftand,
Do thou or punish or reward me.
But ah! what maid to Love can truft?
He fcorns, and breaks, all legal power:
Into her breaft his hand he thrust;
And in a moment forc'd it lower.
XXXI.
O, whither do those fingers rove,
Cries Cloe, treacherous urchin, whither?
O Venus! I fhall find thy Dove,
Says he; for fure I touch his feather.
S Cloe came into the room t' other day,
I peevish began; where fo long could you stay? In your life-time you never regarded your hour : You promis'd at two; and (pray look, child) 'tis four. A lady's watch needs neither figures nor wheels; 'Tis enough, that 'tis loaded with baubles and feals. A temper fo heedlefs no mortal can bear
Thus far I went on with a refolute air..
Lord blefs me! faid fhe; let a body but speak!
Here's an ugly hard rofe-bud fallen into my neck :
It has hurt me, and vext me to fuch a degree-
See here! for you never believe me; pray fee,
On the left fide my breaft, what a mark it has made
So faying, her bosom she careless display'd.
That feat of delight I with wonder furvey'd ;
And forgot every word I defign'd to have faid.
N fullen humour one day Jove
Sent Hermes down to Ida's grove,
Commanding Cupid to deliver
His ftore of darts, his total quiver;
That Hermes should the weapons break,
Or throw them into Lethe's lake.
Hermes, you know, must do his errand :
He found his man, produc'd his warrant :
Cupid! your darts -this very hour-
There's no contending against power!
How fullen Jupiter, just now,
I think I faid: and you'll allow,
That Cupid was as bad as he :
Hear but the youngster's repartee.
Come, kinfman (faid the little god),
Put off your wings, lay by your rod;
Retire with me to yonder bower;
And reft yourself for half an hour:
'Tis far indeed from hence to Heaven;
But you fly fast and 'tis but seven.
We'll take one cooling cup of nectar;
And drink to this celeftial Hector.
He break my darts! or hurt my power!
He, Leda's fwan, and Danaë's fhower!
Go, bid him his wife tongue restrain ;
And mind his thunder, and his rain.-
My darts! O certainly I 'll give 'em :
From Cloe's eyes he fhall receive 'em.
There's one, the best in all my quiver,
Twang! through his very heart and liver;
He then shall pine, and figh, and rave :
Good Lord what buftle shall we have!
Neptune must strait be fent to fea;
And Flora fummon'd twice a day :
One must find fhells, and t' other flowers,
For cooling grots, and fragrant bowers,
That Cloe may be serv'd in ftate :
The Hours must at her toilet wait :
Whilst all the reafoning fools below
Wonder their watches go too flow.
Lybs must fly fouth, and Eurus east,
For jewels for her hair and breast.
No matter, though their cruel hafte
Sink cities, and lay forests wafte.
No matter, though this fleet be loft;
Or that lie wind-bound on the coaft.
What whispering in my mother's ear!
What care, that Juno should not hear!
What work among you fcholar gods!
Phoebus muft write him amorous odes.
And thou, poor coufin, must compofe
His letters in fubmiffive profe :
Whilft haughty Cloe, to fuftain
The honour of my myftic reign,
Shall all his gifts and vows disdain;
And laugh at your old bully's pain.
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