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то

MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.

Defigned for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play

From her own fex fhould mercy find to day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass-but that strange creature, Shore, I can't-indeed now-I fo hate a whoreJust as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you fhall hear,

"How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear?"*' But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,
We'd be the best good natur'd things alive.

There are, tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome clofe corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a referve of vice.

The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy foft nights, and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,

He has a Hufband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his Wife:
Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.

To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoic Chief our ftage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing,
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the City:
There many an honest man might copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the rest fo impudently good;

Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town

Come here in crouds, and ftare the ftrumpet down.

то

P H A O N.

SAY, lovely youth, that do'ft my heart command,

Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Muft then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love?
Afk not the cause that I new numbers chufe,
The lute neglected, and the Lyric muse;
Love taught my tears in fadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe.

I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are born.
Phaon to Ætna's feorching fields retires,
While I confume with more than Etna's fires!
No more my foul a charm in mufic finds,
Mufic has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft fcenes of folitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my paffion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are loft in only thine,

Ah youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!

Whom would not all those blooming charms furprise, Those heav'nly looks, and dear deluding eyes?

The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreath your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' felf with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame;
Nymphs that in verfe no more could rival me,
Than ev n thofe Gods contend in charms with thee.
The Mufes teach me all their softeft lays,

And the wide world refounds with Sappho's praife.
Tho' great Alcaeus more fublimely fings,
And strikes with bolder rage the founding ftrings,
No lefs renown attends the moving lyre,

Which Venus tunes, and all her loves infpire;
To me what nature has in charms deny'd,
Is well by wit's more lafting flames supply'd.
Tho' fhort my ftature, yet my name extends
To heav'n itself, and earth's remoteft ends.
Brown as I am, an Ethiopian dame
Infpi'd young Perfeus with a gen'rous flame;
Turtles and doves of diff ring hues unite,
And gloffy jet is paid with fhining white.
If to no charms thou wilt thy heart resign,
But fuch as merit, fuch as equal thine,
By none, alas! by none thou canst be mov'd,
Phaon alone by Phaon must be lov'd!
Yet once thy Sappho could thy cares employ,
Once in her arms you center'd all your joy:
No time the dear remembrance can remove,
For oh! how vaft a memory has love?

My music, then, you could for ever hear,
And all my words were mufic to you ear.
You ftop'd with kiffes my enchanting tongue,
And found my kiffes fweeter than my fong.
In all I pleas'd, but most in what was best;
And the last joy was dearer than the rest.
Then with each word, each glance, each motion fir'd,
You ftill enjoy'd, and yet you still desir d,
Till all diffolving in the trance we lay,
And in tumultuous raptures dy'd away.
The fair Sicilians now thy foul inflame;
Why was I born, ye Gods! a Lesbian dame ?
But ah, beware, Sicilian nymphs! nor boast
That wandering heart which I fo lately lost;
Nor be with all those tempting words abus'd,
Those tempting words were all to Sappho us'd.
And you that rule Sicilia's happy plains,
Have pity, Venus, on your poet's pains!
Shall fortune still in one fad tenor run,
And still increase the woes fo foon begun?
Inur'd to forrow, from my tender years,
My parents afhes drank my early tears:
My brother next, neglecting wealth and fame,
Ignobly burn'd in a destructive flame:

An infant daughter late my griefs increas'd,
And all a mother's care diftract my breast.
Alas, what more could fate itself impose,
But thee, the last and greatest of my woes?
No more my robes in waving purple flow,
Nor on my hand the sparkling diamonds glow;

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