ODE VIII. To Bariné.
1
If e'er from Heav'n the slightest Harm
The false Bariné should alarm;
If for her Fault a Tooth or Nail
Were black, her Arts might still prevail.
2
But she no sooner gives her Hand,
Than strait she snaps the brittle Band;
Yet shines more eminently fair;
Of all our Youths the public Care!
3
No Pain she suffers, tho' forsworn
E'en by her Mother's sacred Urn;
By all the Stars that deck the Sky,
And by the Gods who Death defy.
4
Venus herself beholds with Smiles,
And Cupid laughs at all her Wiles;
Still on his Whetstone sharp'ning Darts,
Warm with the Blood of wounded Hearts.
5
Add that the Boys, who just attain
To ripen'd Manhood, court her Chain;
And former Lovers haunt her Door,
Who oft to quit the False-one swore.
6
Thee, for her Son the Mother fears;
Thee, thrifty Dotards for their Heirs;
And Brides, lest thy more powerful Charms
Should tempt their Consorts from their Arms.
