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55

THE FOURTH ELEGY.

[Chains, and a haughty Fair I fearless view!]

Chains, and a haughty Fair I fearless view!
Hopes of paternal Freedom all adieu.
Ah when will Love compassionate my Woes?
In one sad Tenour my Existence flows:
Whether I kiss or bite the galling Chain,
Alike my Pleasure, and alike my Pain.
I burn, I burn! oh banish my Despair!
Oh ease my Torture, too too cruel Fair:
57

Rather than feel such vast, such matchless Woe,
I'd rise some Rock o'erspread with endless Snow!
Or frown a Cliff on some disastrous Shore,
Where Ships are wreck'd, and Tempests ever roar!
In pensive Gloominess I pass the Night,
Nor feel Contentment at the Dawn of Light.
What though the God of Verse my Woes indite,
What though I soothing Elegies can write,
No Strains of Elegy her Pride controul;
Gold is the Passport to her venal Soul.
I ask not of the Nine the epic Lay;
Ye Nine! or aid my Passion, or away.
I ask not to describe in lofty Strain,
The Sun's Eclipses, or the lunar Wane;
To win Admission to the haughty Maid,
Alone I crave your elegiac Aid;
But if she still contemns the tearful Lay,
Ye, and your Elegies, away, away!
59

In vain I ask, but Gold ne'er asks in vain;
Then will I desolate the World for Gain!
For Gold, I'll impious plunder every Shrine;
But chief, O Venus, will I plunder thine!
By thee compell'd, I love a venal Maid,
And quit for bloody Fields my peaceful Shade:
By thee compell'd, I rob the hallowed Shrine,
Then chiefly Venus will I plunder thine!
Perish the Man! whose curst industrious Toil
Or finds the Gem, or dies the wooly Spoil;
Hence, hence the Sex's Avarice arose,
And Art with Nature not enough bestows:
Hence, the fierce Dog was posted for a Guard,
The Fair grew venal, and their Gates were barr'd.
61

But weighty Presents Vigilance o'ercome,
The Gate bursts open, and the Dog is dumb.
From venal Charms, ye Gods! what Mischiefs flow?
The Joy, how much o'er-ballanc'd by the Woe!
Hence, hence so few, sweet Love, frequent thy Fane,
Hence impious Slander loads thy guiltless Reign.
But ye! who sell your heavenly Charms for Hire,
Your ill-got Riches be consum'd with Fire!
May not one Lover strive to quench the Blaze,
But smile malicious, as o'er all it preys!
And when ye die, no gentle Friend be near,
To catch your Breath, or shed a genuine Tear!
Behind the Corpse, to march in solemn Show,
Or Syrian Odors on the Pile bestow.
63

Far other Fates attend the generous Maid,
Tho' Age and Sickness bid her Beauties fade,
Still she's rever'd; and when Death's easy Call
Has freed her Spirit from Life's anxious Thrall,
The pitying Neighbours all her Loss deplore,
And many a weeping Friend besets the Door;
While some old Lover touch'd with grateful Woe,
Shall yearly Garlands on her Tomb bestow;
And home returning, thus the Fair address,
‘Light may the Turf thy gentle Bosom press.’
65

'Tis Truth; but what has Truth with Love to do?
Imperious Cupid, I submit to you!
To sell my Father's Seat should you command;
Adieu my Father's Gods, my Father's Land!
From madding Mares, whate'er of Poyson flows,
Or on the Forehead of their Offspring grows,
Whate'er Medea brew'd of baleful Juice,
What noxious Herbs Æmathian Hills produce;
Of all, let Nemesis a Draught compose,
Or mingle Poysons, feller still than those;
If she but smile, the deadly Cup I'll drain,
Forget her Avarice, and exult in Pain!
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