University of Virginia Library

Book the Third.

Now the sure Tokens of Conception heed:
A thrilling Joy attends th'ejected Seed;
Th'impetuous Sally of a pleasing Pain
Invades the Nerves, and stretches ev'ry Vein.
The Months retain'd, the Womb begins to close,
And from the swelling Breasts a milky Fountain flows.
Then, marry'd Nymphs, imploy your nicest Care;
If like your selves you wish an Offspring fair.
Neglect do's oft the hopeful Bud destroy,
And blasts the Promise of a comely Boy.
But since kind Nature has to me display'd
Those sweet Recesses where Mankind is made:
Ye pregnant Matrons, who design to shun
Those Rocks on which some careless Wives have run,
Mark me your Pilot: If you ask a Race
Of a hale Body and a beauteous Face,
(The Product of a pure prolific Juice;)
Observe the Lessons of th'instructive Muse.
But you chast Sisters of th'Aonian Throng,
Who with new Graces have adorn'd my Song;
Forgive your Poet, nor his Numbers blame,
If they too often sound the Cyprian Name.
Venus no more with a Lascivious Smile
Shall Taint my Verse, and Blot my chaster Stile.
At Paphos let the Harlot Goddess stay,
While modest Wives abhor her wanton Way,
Nor soil the Beauties of their first Essay.
For if the Womb then Glow with Lustful Fire,
And, ev'n tho' Pregnant, rage with fresh Desire;
Some shapeless Creature will perhaps proceed
From the ill-tim'd Embrace, and mar the Breed.
Or a too violent Motion may bring forth
A half-begotten, or abortive Birth.
As in the youthful Spring we often see
The flowry Blossoms on some blooming Tree
Which promises delicious Fruit, and keeps
The Sanguine Cherry for the Lady's Lips.
But if some Wind, or ruder Clown shall shake
The hopeful Boughs, or tender Branches break,
The Longings of the Teeming Wife are crost,
And all the early Hopes of Summer lost.
Ye Husbands then, if Prudence guides, forbear
Your dang'rous Kisses to the breeding Fair.
Enough is paid to Love's indearing Charms,
And fatal now becomes the Circle of your Arms.
Lascivious Goats and Wolves, by Nature wise,
When big with Young, the vigorous Leap despise.
Here should I sing what necessary Food
Suits with the pregnant Dame, and forms a gen'rous Brood;
But I omit: Let Sammarthanus tell,
Who on that Subject has prescrib'd so well.
Soon as the Fœtus to the Womb is join'd,
And founds a Temple for th'Immortal Mind.
‘Beware, ye Matrons, how with Vapours prest,
‘You form fantastic Visions in your Breast.
‘Guard well your Eyes from Monsters, and beware
‘No Æsop or Thersites enter there,
‘But all diverting Sights, but Pleasing all and Fair.
For when the Work of Generation grows,
And from the Brain a subtle Spirit flows,
Which mingling in the Womb with genial Heat,
Does there the fructifying Humour meet,
With arbitrary Power it stamps it there,
And binds th'obedient Mass the Form impos'd to wear.
But then this Power is often apt to err,
And oft imprints a harsh rude Character.
So have I seen the Baker's Hand bestow
All sorts of Figures on the kneaded Dough.
In Beasts, in Birds, in Men the Paste is drest,
And in ten thousand Shapes adorns the various Feast.
Thus Fancy does the pliant Fœtus wind,
Thus makes Impressions on the feeble Mind.
Nor are these Notions fanciful and vain,
No wild Chimæra's of some Modern Brain;
But the just Lessons of an ancient Age,
By Plutarch taught of old, and many a learned Sage:
Who knows not, Chiron, how th'afflicted Earth
Curst thy half-monstrous, and half-human Birth.
When Phillyra had fir'd old Saturn's Blood,
And his chill Veins swell'd with a warmer Flood:
A second Youth return'd, The impatient Sire
Goaded with Lust, and raving with Desire,
For the bright Virgin spreads each subtle Snare,
Tries every Art, to win the tender Fair:
Her, with the Blue-ey'd Nereids in her Train,
By chance disporting on her native Plain,
The Heav'nly Letcher seiz'd: and bore away
To lonesome, shady Groves, the beauteous Prey.
What Sighs! what Groans she sent! what Tears she shed
For her Fame lost, and spotless Honour fled!
With piercing Shrieks she mov'd the neighb'ring Shore,
And ecchoing Rocks around were heard to roar:
While with unequal Strength the Nymph withstood
The rank Embraces of the shaggy God.
But the Great Mother with Resentment saw
The faithless Breach of Matrimonial Law;
And from above descended to destroy
Th'adult'rous Kisses, and dishonest Joy.
The Goatish God his jealous Wife to 'scape,
Drop'd his own Form; and in a Horse's Shape,
With fearful Voice thro' the thick Forest neigh'd:
While to sad Plaints, beneath some Poplar Shade,
Resign'd the hapless and deserted Maid.
There injur'd she laments her cruel Doom,
And the lost Honours of her Virgin-Bloom.
Mean time what beauteous Progeny could rise
From so deform'd a Cause, and soul Disguise?
Fancy improves the Objects of the Sight,
And takes more strong Impressions from a Fright.
Now were her thrice three tedious Months expir'd,
And Nature to discharge the full-grown Babe desir'd.
When an unheard of Prodigy befell;
(How my Heart shudders, and recoils to tell!)
Lo! from her Womb a horrid Form appears,
With Human Face erect, and shaggy Hairs,
With horny Hoofs, and Saddle-back the Half-Beast Infant scares.
Who can express what Terrour and Surprize
Seiz'd on the Mother Nymph, and swell'd her Eyes?
When the new Monster, ignominious Brood!
Call'd to her flushing Face the conscious Blood.
Say, ye mild Nereids, who from Ocean came,
How much you suffer'd for your Sister's Shame?
How, when wrong'd Phillyra began to pine,
Your gushing Tears increas'd your native Brine?
How sighing Winds, and wailing Waters moan'd,
And pitying Caves, reverberating, groan'd.
And was I born for this, she cry'd, to see
A Progeny so vile arise from me?
Ill the Great Father of the Gods repays
My Loss of Honour with a Birth so base.
Be witness for me, all ye Powers Divine!
If I have Sin'd, it is no Fault of mine.
O chast Lucina, wou'd thy angry Dart
In my first painful Throws had pierc'd my Heart!
Or wou'd some inauspicious Star had shed
Malignant Beams on my devoted Head!
Better I ne'er had seen th'unwelcome Light
Of hated Day, than this more hated Sight.
Wou'd I—but here a Tyde of Anguish sprung
Loose on her faultring Lips, and choak'd her Tongue.
More had she said: But sunk upon the Place;
While a cold Sweat stuck on her clammy Face;
Her Rosy Colour fled, and every blooming Grace.
Her frighted Sisters to her Aid repair,
Their Love expressing by their timely Care,
And Rich Electral Spirits instantly prepare:
These Father Ocean from his Bosom throws,
To rouze the drooping Soul, when sunk with Woes.
Which, mixt with Cordial Juice, remove the Smart
Of anxious Minds, and chear the drooping Heart.
To Life return'd, the Nymph again complains,
To Grief recover'd and restor'd to Pains.
Oft was she heard to curse the joyless Light,
And wish her Shame hid in eternal Night.
Till stealing through her Limbs, a gentle Sleep
Does in soft Chains her wearied Body keep.
With various Figures of a pleasing Kind,
Her Brain refreshes, and regales her Mind.
But, as in sweet Repose she slumbring lay,
Fatigu'd with the sad Business of the Day;
An airy Nymph appear'd, whose splendid Show
Out-shone the Colours of Heav'n's gaudy Bow.
Phantasia hight, who, with lascivious Pride,
By Twin Camelions drawn, does gaily ride.
Sometimes her Pygmy Littleness Delights,
And sometimes her Gygantic Stature frights.
Now like the Day she shines with silver Rays,
Now a black Night deforms her sooty Face.
Round her all Natures various Species stand,
And follow her unlimited Command.
A Sea rowls on with harmless Fury here,
Strait 'tis a Field, and Trees and Herbs appear.
Here in a Moment are vast Armies made,
And a quick Scene of War and Blood display'd.
At last from different Forms Phantasia took
A chearful Air, and with a jocund Look,
In Words like these the sleeping Fair bespoke.
Enough of Tears: O Phillyra, forbear
To vex thy lovely Cheeks, and golden Hair.
Dry up those Eyes, from which alone proceed
Thy numerous Woes, and this unnatural Breed.
Oft have they figur'd Saturn to your Brain,
With hideous Neighings, and a spreading Main;
And oft have I (who all Complexions shew,
And paint all Species to th'internal View)
His hairy Limbs Thee meditating seen,
And dwelling on his Form with pensive Mien.
When, rustling thro' the Wood, with winged Hoof
He flew amain, to shun his injur'd Wife's Reproof.
And Thee, deflower'd, to thy Woes resign'd,
Revolving his foul Image in thy Mind;
Whence to a Human Head, a Horse's Back was join'd.
But if, when pregnant, thou hadst thought aright,
Nor forc'd me to depaint this odious Sight:
A pure, unblended Offspring had been Thine,
With Heav'nly Beauty grac'd, and Shape Divine.
Yet, hapless Nymph, to mitigate Thy Smart,
And ease with Comfort Thy afflicted Heart:
Not wholly lost to Hope, enjoy Thy Woe;
Oft from black Clouds the Beams of Phœbus flow,
And oft reviving Joys from past Misfortunes grow.
Hear then, what I, prescious of coming Fate,
Nor always feigning idle Dreams, relate.
Thy present Sorrows, this prodigious Boy
Shall largely recompence with future Joy.
When, in the full Maturity of Age,
His prudent Hand shall write Life's manly Page;
Then shall his vast, surprizing Genius shine,
All Eyes amazing, as his Birth does Thine.
He shall the Level of Mankind disdain,
And speak and think above a Human Strain.
His searching Mind shall Nature's Wealth explore
Her inmost Rooms, and undiscover'd Store.
Of Earth and Ocean shall the Secrets know,
Of Plants and Herbs, and for what Use they grow,
Of Metals, Gems, and all the living World below.
Nor thus contented with a narrow Flight,
From the scorn'd Globe shall soar, and lessening to the Sight,
Shall Heav'n's bright Volumes read, and scan each starry Light.
Nor shall his hairy Hyde, and Shape so foul,
Disgrace his lofty and sagacious Soul.
Thetis, the Seed of Nereus, shall prepare
Her own Achilles for thy Offspring's Care.
His Skill the youthful Hero shall inspire
To rule the fiery Steed, and touch the tuneful Lyre.
His martial Pupil shall his Youth imploy
In Arms, and, when betray'd to War, destroy
Dardanian Towers, and Priam's lofty Troy.
Then, when thy Chiron's mortal half shall die,
His Soul shall mount aloft, and sparkle in the Sky.
She said, and strait dissolv'd to empty Air,
Her Phantoms with her fled, and left the waking Fair.
She now reliev'd, from her tormenting Pains,
Feels a new Life rekindle in her Veins.
Her lazy Blood flows with a brisker Stream,
Her Strength recover'd by the pleasing Dream,
Whose healthy Joys her better Mind restore,
Her Heart, which ruffling Storms had vex'd before,
Is all a gentle Calm, tumultuous now no more.
Wak'd from deep Thinking, she begins to find
Light to her Eyes, and Comfort to her Mind.
But since an Object, which disturb'd her Sight,
Produc'd this length of Woes, and sad affright:
Her Eyes no more Survey the monstrous Whale,
With spouting Jaws, and huge extended Tail.
The slimy Phocæ, basking on the Shore,
Or sailing on the Deep, delight no more.
The wanton Dolphins now her Senses shock,
And various Proteus with his scaly Flock;
Or bloated Tritons, who, with ratling sound
Of Coral, shake the wat'ry World around.
Taught by Experience of her past Disgrace,
She shuns the Converse of the Finny Race.
None but Bright Objects, her peculiar Care;
Young Blooming Nereids her Companions are,
Sea-born, like Venus, and like Venus, fair.
If then, ye Matrons, who Conceive, design
A future Offspring, which may grace your Line:
Let not your Fancy at all Objects fly,
But keep strict Reins upon your roving Eye.
Shun every Thing which Shocks your Sense, and View
Ingenuous Looks alone of shining Hew.
If for a Boy with comely Face you long,
See the Bright God, who from Latona sprung,
Apollo, ever Fair, and ever Young.
Or view Alexis, whom the Mantuan Swain
Pursu'd with fruitless Love, and mournful Strain.
But, if a Progeny of Female Race,
With unresisted Charms, and lovely Grace,
Delight you more: the Paphian Goddess view,
Such as the Pencil of fam'd Titian drew:
Or Danae's alluring Looks behold,
While Genial Jove descends in Liquid Gold.
Or if a Beauty of the Modern Age
Shall your Attention and Delight engage;
To my fair Phyllis let your Eyes incline;
For fair She was, or such She seem'd to mine.
When Her unhappy Love my Heart possest,
And scorch'd with furious Flames my burning Breast.
O, with what Bloom, what Flower of Youth, she shone!
How Her Cheeks blush'd a Colour, all Her own,
A genuine Red, like Roses newly blown!
What Nymph with Phyllis could pretend to vie,
A whiter Forehead, or a livelier Eye?
Whose Frame was, like the World: An eloquent Soul
Spoke in each Part, and sparkl'd thro' the Whole.
Each Limb did wanton Loves and Graces bear;
There lodg'd their Arms, their Bows and Arrows there.
But oh! On what imperceptible Strings
Depends th'inconstant Fate of Human Things!
That Face, in which the Gods might take delight,
Is now grown hideous, and forbids the Sight.
With cruel Scythe, inexorable Time,
Mows down her Youthly Bloom, and Beauty's Prime.
Now wrinkly Age begins to draw his Plow
On that once-Smooth, once-Snowy, spacious Brow.
Now, where her Teeth took up their Ivory seat,
Is all an empty Space, or Scene of Jet.
Her Head, which once with golden Tresses shone,
Is silver'd o'er with Hairs but thinly sown:
And now the Flame, which on my Marrow prey'd,
Begins to languish; and the Heat's decay'd.
Phyllis no more can now her Charms employ,
But damps Desire, and frights the Cyprian Boy.
Deform'd, she cures the Wound her Beauty gave,
And She, whose Eyes could kill me, now can save.
Since then the Honours of her Face are lost,
Shun her, ye Pregnant, as a living Ghost.
Lest with her sight your Fancy be defil'd,
And fix her horrid Image on the coming Child.
And now let Chariclæa's Birth be sung,
Who from an Æthiopian Mother sprung.
Her sooty Sire was stounded at the sight,
With all his swarthy Lords, in deep affright,
To see the new-born Babe deform'd with milky white.
For as Persina cherish'd in her Womb
The growing Fœtus, in the Royal room
The Picture of Andromeda was seen,
Painted with snowy Brow, and comly Mien.
Which while the Mother with a greedy view
Intent devour'd, White Images she drew.
From whence a Birth of unknown Whiteness came,
A Colour, devious from the Royal Stem.
But who can any Cure or Comfort bring,
Where Jealousie has stuck her pois'nous sting?
Th'afflicted Monarch, thinks his Bed defil'd,
And wreaks his Malice on the harmless Child.
Th'unknowing tender Babe is now resign'd
To raging Billows, and each boist'rous Wind.
From Dangers to repeated Dangers tost,
To all, but Providence's Favour, lost:
What shapes of Death she saw! what Hazards bore!
Pursu'd where'er she flies, to Sea and Shore,
By angry Tempests, but a Father more.
Till learn'd Sisimethres, in Nature skill'd,
A sage Gymnosophist, the Cause reveal'd.
From whence that strange degenerate Colour rose,
Which soil'd with White th'unhappy Daughter's Brows.
How some fair Object of a sim'lar kind
Work'd on her pregnant Mother's longing Mind.
The King was pleas'd with his convincing Sense,
Which vindicated injur'd Innocence.
But tho', O Meroe's Priest, you reason right,
That such an Object, working on the sight,
Stamp'd this Complexion on the Virgin's Face,
New, and abhorring from her Father's Race:
Yet, since you leave us in the dark to know
How Images, which on our Vision flow,
Are with such Force indu'd, and Power so strange,
Sufficient to produce this wondrous Change;
This my inquiring Muse presumes to tell,
And solve mysterious Nature's Miracle!
Nor am I chain'd to Aristotle's Rules,
So often prated in the wrangling Schools.
To me his vain Opinions dark appear,
And want a stronger Light to make them clear.
Me, Epicurus, in thy Walks admit,
To raise my Fancy, and improve my Wit.
The purest Knowledge in Thy Garden Springs,
In that, the hidden Principles of Things.
Thence will I take my Flight and numerous Strain,
And fear no Errour in a Path so plain.
Our own Gassendus shall direct my View,
For the Terraqueous Globe is his Purlieu.
He chases Nature, wheresoe'er she Flies,
O'er Earth and Seas, in Air or Starry Skies.
In vain Her Swiftness would assist the Dame,
Hot in pursuit of Wisdom, and of Fame,
His penetrating Mind o'ertakes the Noble Game.
FIRST, look around: Whatever meets your Eye,
In the wide Universe of Earth and Sky,
Scatters small Atoms in the ambient Air,
Scal'd from each Body, and Whirl'd here and there
In a continual Fluor: These we call
The Elements of Things which form'd this All
These, with Swift violent Motion, wander o'er
Each Sense, and penetrate the smallest Pore.
But think not here, by these continual Flows,
That a Corporeal Object lesser Grows;
For that Deficiency, and quick Decrease,
Of Subtile Bodies, is supply'd with Ease:
A new Accession does the want repay,
With Atoms Subtile and as fine as They.
These Images are so concise and fine,
That were it possible for you to joyn,
And heap together, all which in the Air
Have fluctuated for a hundred Year,
They scaree would by the naked Eye be read,
Or Spin a little Spider's smallest Thread.
Nor do they less out-strip in rapid Flight,
The darting Sun-Beams, and the nimble Light,
And the swift Planets of th'Æthereal World;
With such a strong Velocity they're hurl'd.
Those which from fair and comely Objects fly,
By their own Smoothness please th'affected Eye:
Thro' the Sight's Pores round little Globules steal,
And the charm'd Senses a strange Pleasure feel.
With secret Joy the Soul it self is seiz'd,
And with th'agreeable Idolum pleas'd.
Which wand'ring from the Eyes by Ways unknown,
O'er the soft Bowels and warm Heart is thrown,
And ming'ling in the Womb the fair Idea's sown.
By which kind Nature models her Design;
With forming Hand she Works each beauteous Line,
And all delightsom Things in the Composure joyn.
But if th'Idola from foul Figures rise,
Their roughness Shocks the Soul, and Wounds the Eyes.
And, as with Spears, which grow from bladed Corn,
Invade the Mind, and make the Senses mourn.
Whence strange Dislike surprizes every Part,
And fills with Horrour the recoiling Heart;
Which, thus Contract, does th'ill-form'd Image throw
Into the Womb, and there th'unpleasing Figure sow.
By which Direction, Nature shapes her Aim,
Distorts the Limbs, or does the Piece Defame
With Features most Deform'd; the weeping Mother's Shame.
And, as we often by Experience find,
If a vile Body cloth as vile a Mind,
The World, which by the Looks does Actions scan,
Will in the Child condemn the future Man.
Nor wonder, that the Fœtus should become,
So pliant to Impressions in the Womb;
And yet the Mother should untouch'd escape,
Retain her Beauty still, and comely Shape.
For, as young Fruits, which on the Tree depend,
Maturing, may the loaded Branches bend,
Yet are no equal Combat to repell
The Shocks of roaring Winds, and ratling Hail:
Nor can the Buffets of a Storm defy,
Like the tough Trunk, which dares the angry Sky.
So soft the Fœtus, can so quickly feel,
Obnoxious to receive the slightest Ill.
'Tis certain then, this Image does remain,
For Nine Months space, deep rooted in the Brain:
And this alone does frequently Controul
The beauteous Labour of the forming Soul.
True: Nature, entring on her just Design
To build an Human Frame; a Work Divine:
After long Study, does at last begin
To Weave the Bowels of the Mass within.
And then to Knit the various Limbs proceeds,
And with first Blood the recent Vessels feeds.
Her next peculiar Care is, to supply
With Flesh, the well-join'd Arm, and sinewy Thigh.
Last, with th'extended Skin's becoming Grace,
She spreads the Forehead, and adorns the Face.
Now well secure your Thoughts, nor look too near,
Or steddily, on what may Cost you dear;
For, you may, dissonant Impressions take,
From Nature's Law, and mar the beauteous Make.
Nor is 't enough to Sooth your longing Sight
With only what Affects you with Delight;
Or from uncouth, unsightly Things to run,
You must immoderate, frequent Dancings shun.
And take peculiar Caution how you move
Too Violent, when you first Conception prove:
Or when the Embryo, lab'ring to break forth,
Shall give sure Promise of th'approaching Birth.
For at both Times, the Fœtus in suspence,
Cleaves to the Womb by slender Ligaments.
And, if a Matron, who would fain excell,
For a light nimble Heel, and Dancing well;
Shall at such Time, delight to throw around
Her spreading Arms, and Skim along the Ground,
She's justly Punish'd, if from thence proceed,
Or an Untimely, or mishapen Breed.
As a young teeming Nymph, who, by a Strain
In Dancing, struggled with a wrecking Pain;
Sent for the Coan Sage, (than whom was found
None more in the Chironian Art renown'd)
Who told her, whence she was so sadly crost,
And the first Promise of an Offspring lost;
How too much Motion, and too violent Speed,
Had kill'd the Product of th'enliv'ning Seed;
When the Formation was but just begun,
And the thin Thread of Life but newly Spun.
So, if a Matron, Eight Months gone with Child,
Dance, like a Bacchanalian, loose, and wild,
She surely brings the Birth before the Time,
And dearly Suffers for her foolish Crime.
What Man can then endure th'undecent Sight,
Who, at a Ball, on some Rejoycing Night,
A pregnant Lady in the Dance beholds,
And mutual Arms lock'd in alternate Folds?
Yet tho' my Muse the breeding Fair would fright
From those Diversions, which her Sex delight,
She should not therefore to Inaction lean,
But follow Reason, and her Golden Mean.
For both Extremities alike displease,
Immoderate Motion, or immoderate Ease.
Sloth, with gross Humours, loads the racy Blood,
And choaks the Passage of the vital Flood;
That sprightly Virtue and ingenit Heat,
Which should the Fœtus in just Form complete,
Opprest by Inactivity, retire,
Unable to exert their generous Fire.
But well-us'd Exercise will chear the Mind,
And free the Spirits, which have slept confin'd
Beneath a sluggish Heap of misty Fumes,
Till the Soul wakes, and all her Native warmth resumes.
Hence the young Pris'ner in the Womb transpires
With greater Freedom, and sound Health acquires
Well-limb'd and Hale, when stranger to the Day
On the World's Stage he makes Life's first Essay.
But what Diversion, by the Rules of Art,
What gentle Labour will the Muse impart,
The Joynts to supple, and inlarge the Heart?
Whether, to slacken and unbend her Care,
The pregnant Matron to the Fields repair,
In Coach, or open Chaise, imbibe the Morning Air.
Where chiefly the tall Elms in shady Rows,
Nor to bleak Winds nor burning Suns expose.
Where silver Sequana's indulgent Tyde
Does Paris with his glassy Streams divide,
Inriching, as he flows, each thirsty Meadow's Side.
O! with what secret Joy the Heartstrings Dance,
To see the blooming Youth, and Flow'r of France,
In sparkling Numbers o'er the Park advance.
To taste new Pleasures, and new Pleasures bring,
When on the Plain the winged Coursers spring,
And flying Chariots kindle in the Ring.
Here a young Lord of wond'rous Hopes behold,
Drawn in a splendid Coach, adorn'd with Gold.
His Garb all killing, and each Gem a Dart
Which finds a Passage to the Lady's Heart.
Down on his Ivory Neck the flowing Hair,
And silver Plumes, which nod and sport in Air,
Command the Passion, and ingage the Fair.
There shines a Nymph, of more than Human Race,
With genuine Beauty, and unborrow'd Grace,
And flashes, as she flies, in each Admirer's Face.
Her Eyes all Flaming, and her rising Breast
Courting the Hand, and suing to be prest.
Her, the pleas'd Lover, prostrately, adores,
And to the Goddess his best Wishes pours.
She with a Smile his Compliment returns,
And cools the fev'rish Flame, with which he burns.
Becoming pleasurable Sights, like these,
Will sooth the Senses, and the Pregnant please;
But when bent homeward ev'ry Coach retires,
And the Diversion with the Day expires,
Then each Automedon, with furious Speed,
Drives on the kindling Wheels, and Whips the foaming Steed,
Loosens his Reins, and fearing to be Late,
Contends to be the foremost at the Gate.
He pushes forward, eager to displace
His Fellow-Driver in the rapid Race.
Hence the soft Nymph a secret Horrour feels,
From an ungrateful Din of crashing Wheels.
Hence an unlucky Fall unveils to Sight,
What her chaste Garments would conceal from Light;
Misfortune's Crime! The frighted Virgin skrieks,
Mourns her bruis'd Forehead, or her bleeding Cheeks,
Or swelling Eyes, which oft, alas! disgrace
The budding Honours of her injur'd Face.
Therefore, O Pregnant, with a cautious Care,
Those dangerous Strifes and Rivalries beware:
With Pride let others in the Front appear,
Take thou the safe Dishonour of the Rear.
For grant, your Coach unhurt, your Self secure,
Yet where's the Harm in being slow and sure?
Perhaps the Fear of falling will bring forth
A worse Misfortune, an Abortive Birth.
For when the Blood shall with a sudden Start,
Run to the Caverns of the Womb and Heart,
A chilling Fear will all your Hopes defeat,
Whose Icy Flood destroys the forming Heat.
And now the Mother, when her Griefs are done,
Sees her fair Self in a delicious Son.
The lawful Issue of the Nuptial Bed,
Must now be cherish'd, and in Cradle laid.
Here let the careful Nurse, with easie Hand,
Bind round his Waste the Purple Swadling Band.
Lest she Deform the soft and lovely Boy,
And dash th'expecting Parents future Joy.
For, at his Entrance in Life's early Scene,
Too tight a Swathing will Distort his Mien.
And the base World with a malicious Sneer
Will the foul Burthen on his Shoulders jeer.
Besides, if for your Offspring you desire
To keep his Native Elegance entire,
You must with speedy Remedies displace
Those Foes, which oft invade the Childish Race.
Chiefly the Measles and Small Pox beware,
Those Goths and Vandals to the tender Fair.
Which Plant thick Ulcers, and young Beauty blight
With pimpled Sores, ungrateful to the Sight.
Strait for Relief to some Machaon fly,
Lest a foul Scar affect the sparkling Eye,
Or Nose, or rosie Cheek, or dimpled Chin,
Or roughen the smooth Surface of the Skin.
How did Aminta, in her flow'ry Spring,
Shine in the Box, and Sparkle in the Ring?
Who could alas! Her numerous Graces tell,
E're to this Plague a Sacrifice she fell?
What Lillies from her Forehead did it tear,
And kill'd the little Loves which sported there?
Not Cytherea could of late compare
With Galatea's Smiles, and winning Air:
What Hecatombs of Lovers would she Slay,
Till she became this Tyrant's mournful Prey!
Who with Devoted, Sacrilegious Arms,
Rob'd her bright Temple of a thousand Charms,
Her dented Cheeks, where Roses grew before,
And dropping Eyes, distribute Death no more.
Daphnis was once the Beauty of the Plain,
Till this Contagion seiz'd the lovely Swain.
How was He Courted! How the Idol grown,
Of the Fair Sex; and darling of his own!
Daphnis the Breast of each Beholder fir'd,
Daphnis alone the longing Nymphs desir'd;
But now they Pity, whom they once Admir'd.
But this is foreign to the Poet's Art,
This pious Care is the Physician's Part;
Who can endure my Rashness, or Excuse
The bold Presumption of my daring Muse?
Unequal to the Province she resigns
The Charge to Sammarthanus learned Lines.
Nor will she tread where he has gone before,
But stand Aloof, and silently Adore.
If then, ye Matrons, you affect to know
From whence these Spots, the worst of Judgments, flow.
If from a beauteous Face you would remove
Those Stains, which damp the Sparks of kindling Love;
Read what the Rules of Sammarthanus tell,
And hourly on his useful Pages dwell.
Not indigent of Fame, with happy flight,
His Wings have reach'd Parnassus double Height;
All Helicon flows in his Strains Divine,
Rowls with luxuriant Streams in every Line,
While whole Apollo's Beams in his bright Numbers shine.
And now 'tis time to Bait, and kindly Chuse
Some small Refreshment for the breathing Muse:
She, who incourag'd by Phæbean Heat
Soar'd with no vulgar Wing to th'Gods upper Seat,
Who, with disdainful Smile, but now Survey'd
The subject Clouds, and Earth's inferiour Shade,
Now courts soft Quiet, and the pleasing Glade.
But if by Chance the Goddess shall return,
And my warm Breast with a new Phæbus burn,
I may hereafter feel my self inclin'd,
To sing the Nuptials of the beauteous Mind,
And an unblemish'd Soul to a fair Body joyn'd.
For who can bear the foul, forbidding Sight
Of well-born Beauty, warping from the Right,
Prowling with greedy and dishonest Eyes,
For Scenes of Lust, Debauchery, and Vice?
Should Souls, descending from a Heavenly Race,
With low Desires their lofty Birth Disgrace?
But the wild Madness of this Iron Age
Is undeserving of th'instructive Page.
The World has banish'd, as an Idle Name,
The love of Virtue, and the fear of Shame.
'Tis hard among a Thousand now to find
One with incocted Honesty of Mind.
Since France with endless Wars familiar grown,
Adopted Forreign Manners for her own.
Ye Guardian Gods, Distributers of Fate,
Ye watchful Angels of th'Hectorean State!
If e're the Gallic Glory was your Care,
Hold your Commission'd Anger, and forbear,
Remove your Sword, and the griev'd Nation spare!
Hush the loud Trumpets, bid the Drum be Mute,
And Kingdoms listen to the softer Lute.
So golden Peace shall spread her downy Wings,
Arts shall return, the Favourites of Kings,
And Laurels flourish to Reward what the bold Poet sings.