T

MORA L.

HIS Commoner has Worth and Parts,
Is prais'd for Arms, or lov'd for Arts;
His Head akes for a Coronet,

And who is blefs'd that is not Great?
Some Parts, and more Eftate, kind Heav'n
To this well-lotted Peer was given;

What then? He must have Rule and Sway,
And all
wrong 'till he's in Play.
The Mifer must make up his Plumb,
And dare not touch the gotten Sum.
The fickly Dotard wants a Wife,
To draw off his laft Dregs of Life.

Against our Peace we Arm our Will,
Amidft our Plenty, Something ftill
For Horfes, Houfes, Pictures, Planting,
To Thee, to Me, to Him is wanting.
That cruel Something unpoffefs'd
Corrodes and leavens all the reft.
That Something if we could obtain,
Would foon create a future Pain:
And to the Coffin from the Cradle,
'Tis all a Wish, and all a Ladle.

To the Author of the Paftoral,
Printed Page 174.

B

Y Sylvia, if thy charming Self be meant,
If Friendship, be thy Virgin Vows extent,
Oh! let me in Corinna's Praifes join,

Hers my Efteem fhall be, my Paffion thine:
When for thy Head the Garland I prepare,
A fecond Wreath shall bind Corinna's Hair;
And when my choiceft Songs thy Worth proclaim,
Alternate Verfe fhall blefs Corinna's Name;

My Heart shall own the Juftice of her Cause,
And Love himself submit to Friendship's Laws.
But if beneath thy Number's foft Disguise,
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 bless thy Board.
Yet, if amidst the Series of these Joys,
One fad Reflection should by chance arise,
Give it, in Pity, to the wretched Swain,
Who loving much, who not belov'd again,
Felt an ill-fated Paffion's laft Excess,

And dy'd in Woe, that thou might'st 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 pafs 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 distant 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!

[Cries?

'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 cas'd; Nor knew I Pleasure, but as thou wert pleas'd. Where shall I wander now, diftrefs'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 blefs'd with equal Grace?
All may difpute, but who can fill thy Place?
What Lover in his Mistress hopes to find
A Form fo lovely, with fo bright a Mind?
Doris may boaft 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 didst thou keep a Crowd of Charms retir'd,
Wou'd make a thousand other Nymphs admir’d.
Gay, modeft, artlefs, beautiful, and young;
Slow to refolve, in Refolution ftrong;
To all obliging, yet referv'd to all,

None cou'd himself 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 fled?
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 Praise.
Thyrfis, in gay and eafie Meafures, 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 firft thy Charms he faw,
Confefs'd the Goddess that new-form'd his Mindy
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 spotless Virgin, in her Beauty's Bloom!
Whatever Hopes fuperior Merit gave,

Let me, at least, embrace thee in the Grave:
On thy cold Lips imprint a dying Kiss:
Oh! that thy Coynefs cou'd refuse me this!
Such melting Tears upon thy Limbs I'll pour,
Shall thaw their Numbness, and thy Warmth reftore;
Clasp'd to my glowing Breast, thou may'st 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 hufht, the Sea's ferene;
And Nature soften'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, mistaken in our Joy and Grief,
Bewail her Fate, who wants not our Relief:
From the pleas'd Orbs fhe views us here below,
And with kind Pity wonders at our Woe.

"

Ah, Charming Saint! fince thou art Blefs'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!