 | Occasional Poems |  |
121
The Perjured Mistress.
From Horace, Epod. 15. ad Neæram.
'Twas Night, and Heav'n intent with all its Eyes
Gaz'd on the dear deceitful Maid;
A thousand pretty things she said,
A thousand artful Tricks she play'd,
From me, deluded me, her Falshood to disguise.
Gaz'd on the dear deceitful Maid;
A thousand pretty things she said,
A thousand artful Tricks she play'd,
From me, deluded me, her Falshood to disguise.
She clasp'd me in her soft encircling Arms,
She press'd her glowing Cheek to mine,
The clinging Ivy, or the curling Vine,
Did never yet so closely twine;
Who cou'd be Man, and bear the Lustre of her Charms?
She press'd her glowing Cheek to mine,
The clinging Ivy, or the curling Vine,
Did never yet so closely twine;
Who cou'd be Man, and bear the Lustre of her Charms?
122
And thus she swore: By all the Pow'rs above,
When Winter Storms shall cease to roar,
When Summer Suns shall shine no more,
When Wolves their Cruelty give o'er,
Neæra then, and not till then, shall cease to love.
When Winter Storms shall cease to roar,
When Summer Suns shall shine no more,
When Wolves their Cruelty give o'er,
Neæra then, and not till then, shall cease to love.
Ah! false Neæra! perjur'd Fair! but know,
I have a Soul too great to bear
A Rival's proud insulting Air,
Another may be found as fair,
As fair, ungrateful Nymph! and far more just than you.
I have a Soul too great to bear
A Rival's proud insulting Air,
Another may be found as fair,
As fair, ungrateful Nymph! and far more just than you.
Should'st thou repent, and at my Feet be laid,
Dejected, penitent, forlorn,
And all thy former Follies mourn,
Thy proffer'd Passion I wou'd scorn:
The Gods shall do me right on that devoted Head.
Dejected, penitent, forlorn,
And all thy former Follies mourn,
Thy proffer'd Passion I wou'd scorn:
The Gods shall do me right on that devoted Head.
123
And you, spruce Sir, who insolently gay,
Exulting laugh at my Disgrace,
Boast with vain Airs, and stiff Grimace,
Your large Estate, your handsome Face,
Proud of a fleeting Bliss, the Pageant of a Day:
Exulting laugh at my Disgrace,
Boast with vain Airs, and stiff Grimace,
Your large Estate, your handsome Face,
Proud of a fleeting Bliss, the Pageant of a Day:
You too shall soon repent this haughty Scorn;
When fickle as the Sea or Wind,
The Prostitute shall change her Mind,
To such another Coxcomb kind;
Then shall I clap my Wings, and triumph in my turn.
When fickle as the Sea or Wind,
The Prostitute shall change her Mind,
To such another Coxcomb kind;
Then shall I clap my Wings, and triumph in my turn.
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