Oh! did thy heart but wish to see that day, But vain are all these hopes: preserve thy breast From falsehood only, I forgive the rest : Too happy, if no envy'd rival boast Those joys Arisbe to her Marius lost. EPISTLE VIII. FLORA TO POMPEY. By the Same. ERE death these closing eyes for ever shade My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand Think you behold me in this lost estate, And think yourself the author of my fate : How vast the change! your Flora's now become The gen'ral pity, not the boast of Rome. This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art, This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart, (Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place The sacred temples of her gods to grace) Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled, Soon shall some hand the glorious work deface, O! that those hours could take their turn again, When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain, His Flora thus bespoke : Say, my dear love! Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove? In vain, for ever, shall the Roman youth Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth? Shall neither tears nor prayers thy pity move? Ah! give not pity, 'tis a-kin to love. Would Flora were not fair in such excess, That I might fear, though not adore her less." Fool that I was, I sought to ease that grief, 'Twas thou thyself, (ungrateful as thou art) Bade me unbend the rigor of my heart: You chid my faith, reproach'd my being true, How could'st thou thus my lavish heart abuse, To ask the only thing it could refuse? Nor yet upbraid me, Pompey, what I say, Yet this alleg'd against me as a fault, Urge not, to gloss thy crime, the name of friend, We know how far those sacred laws extend; Since other heroes have not blush'd to prove How weak all passions when oppos'd to love: Nor boast the virtuous conflict of thy heart, When gen'rous pity took Geminius' part; 'Tis all heroic fraud, and Roman art. Such flights of honor might amuse the crowd, But by a mistress ne'er can be allow'd; Keep for the senate, and the grave debate, That infamous hypocrisy of state, There words are virtue, and your trade deceit. No riddle is thy change, nor hard t' explain, Flora was fond, and Pompey was a man: No longer then a specious tale pretend, You say you melted at Geminius' tears, My wrongs, and my distress, obdurate, see. He, who receiv'd, condemns the gift you made, And joins with me the giver to upbraid, Forgetting he's oblig'd, and mourning I'm betray'd. He loves too well that cruel gift to use, Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse : Fain would he call my vagrant lord again, But I the kind ambassador restrain ; I scorn to let another take my part, And to myself will owe or lose thy heart. Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee? That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast? |