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A Collection Of Poems

By John Whaley

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Imitation of Horace, Lib. 2. Od. 8.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


180

Imitation of Horace, Lib. 2. Od. 8.

By the Same.

Wou'd Heav'n by one imperfect Hair
Barine's thousand Charms disgrace,
If on thy Teeth one Speck were seen,
Or smallest Freckle on thy Face:
Wou'd God's in Wrath a Pimple send,
I possibly might turn Believer.
But now, the more at large you Sin,
You look more killingly than ever.
You, each Hearts Flame, the reigning Toast,
May snuggly err, secure from Harm,
Each Guilt enlightens Beauty's Power,
Each broken Vow improves a Charm.

181

Then it avails, dear wicked Fair,
To trick thy Mother's peaceful Shade,
While conscious Stars in Silence roll,
And Gods applaud the perjur'd Maid.
Venus no doubt the Cheat approves,
And in Barine's Cause is hearty,
While Cupid shooting from her Eyes;
Is Listed in the Virgins Party.
Fond of thy Yoke, our Captive Youth
Thy softest Bonds and Empire own;
Each subject Swain, great Queen of Love,
Submissive bends before thy Throne.
Thy old Gallants still hover round,
Nor can thy haunted Chamber leave,
The Flames that threaten'd to Expire,
Their ancient Lustre now retreive.

182

Thee, fair one, thee each Mother fears,
Thee each suspicious tender Bride,
Thy Air may captivate her Lord,
And cut the Knot which Hymen ty'd.