REBUS II.
The fine vermil Glow of the innocent Cheek,
The Garden's gay Pride let your Diligence seek;
The Scene of Wolfe's Glory, of Sackville's Disgrace,
Of rural Delights, and the Sports of the Chace;
Then spell, put together, and tell me the Name;
And Apollo
himself shall you rival in Fame:
'Tis Venus, in Fact, who, forsaking the Skies,
Has put on, for a Frolic, a human Disguise,
No Vapour, no Cloud,
but a palpable Form
Of pure Flesh and Blood, substantial, and warm;
What removes every Doubt, is—her Train to compose,
Two Graces attend her, wherever she goes;
(Each so like to their Queen, though, your Homage, and Wonder
You 'll be apt to misplace, if you meet them asunder)
The third, from mere Prudence, continues above;
Lest the Gods should shake off the Dominion of Love.
The SOLUTION.
The
vermil Glow of Beauty's Cheek,
The Garden's Pride you bid me seek;
The Scene, where late with lasting Shame,
Dishonour stain'd the Sackville Name,
Where, clasp'd in Victory's Embrace,
Young Wolfe compleated Glory's Race,
And where, with early Hound and Horn,
The Hunter-train awake the Morn—
With Lover's Haste the Task I claim;
And tell, that Bloomfield is the Name.
One Doubt's yet unsatisfied—Which of the three?
A Question too hard to be answer'd by me:
So equally lovely their Features, and Eyes,
Not Paris himself could determine the Prize.
