Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress.
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
128
To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress.
Such are your proud, deluding ways to move,
I hate you more, than ev'n my Friend can Love.
A brave revenge inspires my swelling Soul,
While Thoughts of thee in my rais'd Bosom roll.
Be gone, yet Nine, your aid I now refuse,
For, Indignation shall be here my Muse.
Immortal hatred urge me on to think,
And stain thy Name, with everlasting Ink.
My Juster Pen shall Wound your Honour, more
Than e'er it rais'd you, to esteem before.
Gay you appear, where your false Beauties come,
But I shall Rob you of your borrow'd Plume.
My Muse's Wings have soar'd, and born you high,
Blown by my Breath, did the vain bubble fly,
But now I laugh, to see it's glories die.
Tow'ring so lofty, you are giddy grown,
And, of necessity, must tumble down.
Such Fogs of praises have you drawn from all,
In show'rs of Tears the gather'd Mists must fall.
Now, thro' those Clouds, my light'ning fancy flies,
To blast thy Pride, which, when 'tis blasted, dies.
Along the Airy confines of thy Fame,
My Verse shall roll, charg'd with thy Sultry name.
My Hand, now Arm'd, a fatal Pow'r does own,
My Pen's the Thunder-bolt to dash thee down.
My kindling Eyes with Flames so Furious move,
They can't be fancy'd to arise from Love.
My fiercer Satyr cannot so expire,
For, Salamander like, 'tis born, and Lives in Fire.
With waxen Wings to Airy heights you flew,
Which none durst ever yet attempt, but you.
As some skill'd Fowler, who the Lark descrys,
And from his Glass, darts Sun-beams in his Eyes,
Beholds the prey, which he saw Tow'ring, lay'd
In the low Net, which on the ground he spread;
So, in thy fall, I'll see thy weakness try'd,
When I glance, on thee, all thy rays of Pride.
I hate you more, than ev'n my Friend can Love.
A brave revenge inspires my swelling Soul,
While Thoughts of thee in my rais'd Bosom roll.
Be gone, yet Nine, your aid I now refuse,
For, Indignation shall be here my Muse.
Immortal hatred urge me on to think,
And stain thy Name, with everlasting Ink.
My Juster Pen shall Wound your Honour, more
Than e'er it rais'd you, to esteem before.
Gay you appear, where your false Beauties come,
But I shall Rob you of your borrow'd Plume.
My Muse's Wings have soar'd, and born you high,
Blown by my Breath, did the vain bubble fly,
But now I laugh, to see it's glories die.
Tow'ring so lofty, you are giddy grown,
And, of necessity, must tumble down.
Such Fogs of praises have you drawn from all,
In show'rs of Tears the gather'd Mists must fall.
Now, thro' those Clouds, my light'ning fancy flies,
To blast thy Pride, which, when 'tis blasted, dies.
129
My Verse shall roll, charg'd with thy Sultry name.
My Hand, now Arm'd, a fatal Pow'r does own,
My Pen's the Thunder-bolt to dash thee down.
My kindling Eyes with Flames so Furious move,
They can't be fancy'd to arise from Love.
My fiercer Satyr cannot so expire,
For, Salamander like, 'tis born, and Lives in Fire.
With waxen Wings to Airy heights you flew,
Which none durst ever yet attempt, but you.
As some skill'd Fowler, who the Lark descrys,
And from his Glass, darts Sun-beams in his Eyes,
Beholds the prey, which he saw Tow'ring, lay'd
In the low Net, which on the ground he spread;
So, in thy fall, I'll see thy weakness try'd,
When I glance, on thee, all thy rays of Pride.
And know, proud she! The Darts your Cupid threw,
Were beardless toys, which my Friend Sporting drew.
Yet still their Poyson swells his Venom'd Mind,
The Hony Passion left a sting behind.
Poor suppliant ways you use with sordid Art,
And Cringe your self, to undermine a Heart.
Yet, there are Nymphs, can with their coldness, move,
More warmth, than you with your feign'd Fires of Love.
Your Flag, all White, does innocent appear,
And the false signs of a surrender bear,
Peace it displays, and wantons with the Air.
But when Besiegers would possess the Town,
You Fire, like thunder, on the Wretches down.
Mean, fawning thing! Who to each Fop would Bow,
And flatter him, that he might flatter you.
Like Popular Knaves, a suppliant Soul you shew,
Cry up the Crowd, to make them Cry up you.
Just so, a Pebble struck on stony ground,
Falls to that place, which makes it higher bound.
'Tis but for praise, you, flatt'ring thing, have Bow'd,
And you are humble that you may be proud.
Thus, when the Cannon's Ball the highest flies,
The Gun bends back, and near the Pavement lies.
But while your baseness, and your Pride I blame,
Your Judgment Justly should be rais'd to Fame.
You know your want of Pow'rful Charms to move,
Your Gold excepted, which Commands our Love.
From Sulph'rous Mines Men still would dig the Oar,
Tho' worse than those, which brought it forth before.
Were beardless toys, which my Friend Sporting drew.
Yet still their Poyson swells his Venom'd Mind,
The Hony Passion left a sting behind.
Poor suppliant ways you use with sordid Art,
And Cringe your self, to undermine a Heart.
130
More warmth, than you with your feign'd Fires of Love.
Your Flag, all White, does innocent appear,
And the false signs of a surrender bear,
Peace it displays, and wantons with the Air.
But when Besiegers would possess the Town,
You Fire, like thunder, on the Wretches down.
Mean, fawning thing! Who to each Fop would Bow,
And flatter him, that he might flatter you.
Like Popular Knaves, a suppliant Soul you shew,
Cry up the Crowd, to make them Cry up you.
Just so, a Pebble struck on stony ground,
Falls to that place, which makes it higher bound.
'Tis but for praise, you, flatt'ring thing, have Bow'd,
And you are humble that you may be proud.
Thus, when the Cannon's Ball the highest flies,
The Gun bends back, and near the Pavement lies.
But while your baseness, and your Pride I blame,
Your Judgment Justly should be rais'd to Fame.
You know your want of Pow'rful Charms to move,
Your Gold excepted, which Commands our Love.
From Sulph'rous Mines Men still would dig the Oar,
Tho' worse than those, which brought it forth before.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |