Satyr has lost its Art, its Sting is gone,
The Fop and Cully now may be undone;
That dear inftructing Rage is now allay'd,
And no sharp Pen dares tell 'em how they've ftray'd Bold as a God was ev'ry lash he took,
But kind and gentle the chaftizing stroke.
Mourn,mourn, yeYouths, whom Fortune has betray'd, The laft Reproacher of your Vice is dead. Mourn, all ye Beauties, put your Cypress on, The trueft Swain that e'er Ador'd you's gone; Think how he lov'd, and writ, and figh'd, and spoke, Recall his Mein, his Fashion, and his Look. By what dear Arts the Soul he did surprize, Soft as his Voice, and charming as his Eyes. Bring Garlands all of never-dying Flow'rs, Bedew'd with everlafting falling Show'rs; Fix your fair Eyes upon your victim'd Slave, Sent Gay and Young to his untimely Grave. See where the noble Swain extended lies, Too fad a Triumph of your Victories; Adorn'd with all the Graces Heav'n e'er lent, All that was Great, Soft, Lovely, Excellent You've laid into his Early Monument.
Mourn, mourn, ye Beauties, your fad loss deplore,
The young, the charming Strephon is no more.
Mourn, all ye little Gods of Love, whofe Darts
Have loft their wonted Power of piercing Hearts;
Lay by the gilded Quiver and the Bow,
The useless Toys can do no Mischief now,
Those Eyes that all your Arrows Points inspir'd,
Those Lights that gave ye fire, are now retir'd,
Cold as his Tomb, pale as your Mother's Doves;
Bewail him then oh all ye little Loves,
For you the humbleft Votary have loft
That ever your Divinities could boaft;
Upon your Hands your weeping Heads decline,
And let your Wings encompass round his Shrine
Inftead of Flow'rs your broken Arrows ftrow,
And at his Feet lay the neglected Bow.
Mourn, all ye little Gods, your loss deplore,
The foft, the charming Strephon is no more.
Large was his Fame, but short his glorious Race,
Like young Lucretius liv'd and dy'd apace.
So early Rofes fade, fo over all
They caft their fragrant Scents, then softly fall;
While all the scatter'd perfum'd Leaves declare,
How lovely 'twas when whole, how fweet, how fair.
Had he been to the Roman Empire known,
When great Auguftus fill'd the peaceful Throne;
Had he the noble wond'rous Poet feen,
And known his Genius, and furvey'd his Mein,
(When Wits, and Heroes grac'd Divine abodes,)
He had encreas'd the number of their Gods;
The Royal Judge had Temples rear'd to's Name,
And made him as Immortal as his Fame;
In Love and Verfe his Ovid he'ad out-done,
And all his Laurels, and his Julia won.
Mourn, mourn, unhappy World, his Loss deplore,
The great, the charming Strephon is no more.
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.
UST all my Life in fruitless Love be spent?
And never, never will your Heart relent?
Too well, my charming Dear, your Pow'r you know,
And that which makes you play the Tyrant so.
For ever be the fatal Moment curft,
When fondly I confess'd my Passion first.
Oh! that my Flames had never been reveal'd,
Oh! that I now could keep the Fire conceal'd.
Refiftless Love your Victory secures,
And you already know my Soul is yours.
It shows it felf thro' all the forc'd disguise,
Breaks tho' my Lips, and trembles at my Eyes.
My Blood boils high, and rages to be bleft,
My fluctuating Thoughts will never reft,
And know no calm, 'till harbour'd in your Breast.
Relent, at laft, my cruel Fair relent,
And liften kindly to my just Complaint.
Think on the Paffion that's already paft,
Think that the Paffion will for ever laft.
O fee with what impatient Fires I burn,
And let your pitying Heart make some return.
My Flames are fo fincere, my Love is such,
Some you should fhow,---you cannot show too much.
How bleft fhould I in your Poffeffion be?
How happy might you make your felf in me?
No Mistress ever led fo fweet a Life,
As you should in th' exploded thing, a Wife;
Years fhould roll round on Years, and Ages move
In Circles, Crown'd in everlasting Love.
Our mutual Joys, should like your Charms be new,
And all my business be to merit you.
What fhall I fay? Lines after Lines rehearse
Nought but the fondness in the former Verfe.
On the dear Theme I could for ever dwell;
For while I speak to you,---
My fault'ring Tongue can never speak farewel.
In your cold Breaft let Love an Entrance find,'
And think, oh! quickly think, of growing kind.
My Flames no more with dull Indiff'rence treat,
Indiffrence is the Lover's hardeft Fate;
But if my Ruin is your fix'd Intent,
Urge it I beg you with a clofer bent.
All glimm'rings of the faintest Hope remove,
Say, that you do not, will not, cannot love.
Extreamly kind, or in Extreams fevere,
Make fure my Blifs, or mad me with Despair.
Forbid me, banish me your charming fight,
Shut from my view thofe Eyes that shine so bright,
Shut your dear Image from my Dreams by Night.
Drive 'em fomewhere, as far as Pole from Pole,
Let Winds between us rage, and Waters roll;
In diftant Climes let me my Fate deplore,
In fome lone fland, on a defart Shore,
Where I may fee your fatal Charms no more.
By Mr. CHARLES HOPKINS.
Thought in Silence to fupprefs my Pain,
And never show my fond Concern again,
What e'er you show'd; Indifference, or Disdain.
But Love's great God the vain resolve withstands,
At once infpires my Breaft, and guides my Hands
My Soul flows out in ev'ry Line I write,
And rolls in Numbers in my own defpight.
Then let me in Poetick Fury break,
For I can write the things I dare not speak.
My Tongue ftill faulters as I move my Suit,
And awful Love confounds and keeps me mute.
Out of your Sight I can my Wrongs proclaim,
And with unfetter'd Words confefs my Flame.
Why do you use me thus, ingrateful Fair?
Opprefs'd with Doubts, yet bury'd 'bove Despair.
Like wounded Fowl upon the Flood I lye,
Floating on Wings, with which they us❜d to fly,
Who would find Eafe, could they but drown and die.
Such ftill has been your conqu'ring Beauty's fpight,
Cruel to wound, not kind to kill outright,
Be merciful and fave, or fink me quite.
Tofs not 'twixt hope and fear my lab'ring Heart,
Let us for ever join, or ever part.
You know I love you, and you love me too,
Which you have kindly let me know you do;
All this I know; oh! there will be the fall
From Heav'n, to Hell;---
Should I be doom'd to lofe you after all,
But be not by mistaken Notions led,
Nor think that Riches bless the Nuptial Bed.
This fhall my only Consolation be,
No Fool of Fortune can your Merit fee,
Nor have the Wit and Senfe to love like me.
Oh! would that you had been but meanly Born,
Naked of Friends, abandon'd and forlorn;
Left to the World ;---then should this Wifh enfue,
Oh! would I had a World to offer you.
You know this is no falfe Poetick flight,
You know I feel more than the Muse can write.
Too well, my cruel Dear, you keep the Field,
Too long hold out; 'tis now high time to yield.
Confent at laft, to mutual Joys refign,
And let the smallest share of Blifs be mine;
Unalterable Love your part fecures,
My Int'reft, Humour, all my Soul is yours.
I beg you, let me know my Doom at last, Nought worse than Death can come, then all is past. But think, and do not make a rash Decree; O! think, you never were, nor e'er can be, So truly lov'd, as you have been by me.
Hen God from Heav'n, for Difobedience, threw
The tow'ring Satan; he refolv'd to fhew
(By forming Thoufands happy in his Place)
How much the Wretch deferv'd his Lord's Difgrace &
For none, who faw his Bounty fo excell,
Cou'd doubt his Juftice, when his Angel fell.
The happy Creature, for this Bliss design'd,
Was Man; ungrateful to a God fo kind.
A mighty Chaos, which had long time lain-
In Heaps and Darkness, useless and in vain,
(Perhaps, the dread Remains of fome old World;
For Crimes like ours, in just Confufion hurl'd:)
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