To
Belinda;
On the Death of her Turtle.
Cease, soft Belinda, to deplore
Your favour'd Dove, who feels no more,
Nor can your Grief the Loss repair;
Rather compassionate your Swain,
Who lives, and loves, and sighs in vain,
And longs for Death to-end his Care.
Written on her Glass.
Behold your self, and pity me,
Who languish for that Face so fair:
Into my Heart cou'd you but see,
You'd find the same bright Image there.
Answer to
Strephon
O Strpehon! how useless your Counsel must prove,
Who sighs for Belinda for ever must love;
For thus the dread Power of Love has decreed!
Who once wears her Fetters shall never be freed,
On absolute Beauty an absolute Sway
Is justly bestow'd, and with Pride we obey.
Sent to him, as he whisper'd ---
Swain
, give o'er your fond Pretension!
Wit's above her Apprehension:
'Tis no Merit to excell.
Any powder'd Thing in Breeches,
Who can make soft, simple Speeches,
Pleases Myra full as well.
The Disinterested Swain.
While
Whig and Tory clash, and jarr,
These cry, we're blest! and these, undone!
Which Party, Damon, dost thou hate?
For neither side I can declare;
Malice, Ambition, I have none.
I leave the mighty Feuds of State
To the Decision of the Great:
To be unknown, was still my Fate;
The Muse, and Cloë all my Care.
Stay, take this Fable Æsop told
Of the dull Ass, and Man of old,
Who, when the Enemy he spy'd,
Thus to the careless Creature cry'd,
When Kicks, and Blows in vain were try'd.
Why stand'st thou? Fool? why this Delay?
Is this a time to piss, and bray?
Our armed Foes are all around:
Hark, how their Drums, and Trumpets sound!
Stir, stupid Beast! let's haste away!
Why, let them come, or let them stay,
Quoth the well-meaning, lazy Ass,
Good Master, 'tis not my Affair;
I still must crop coarse, wither'd Grass,
And my two loaded Panniers bear.
The Turtles;
a Fable.
Say, why, Companion, thus confind,
And to your Fortune so resign'd?
Venus, to whom I did belong,
Gave me to Damon for a Song,
Where, artless, in his humble Lays
Adonis he attempts to Praise.
In sport by Cloë, t'other day,
From Damon I was stole away:
The Shepherd begs, and prays, and fain
Wou'd have her give me back again;
But Cloë I to him prefer,
And wish, to lead my Life with her;
For here I sport, and feed at Will,
And think, I dwell with Venus still,
On her fair Hand I sit, and eat;
'Tis she her self prepares my Meat;
When I wou'd drink I mount, and sip
Pure Nectar from her fragrant Lip;
Then, overjoy'd, I spread my Wings,
Soon as she Talks, or Plays, and Sings,
But when she sleeps, I take my Rest
Upon her warm, and downey Breast.
Wou'd you not give, for her Caress,
The savage Freedom you possess;
The musty Grains which Chance must yield
On Mountain Tops, or in the Field;
Amidst Alarms of Guns, and Kites,
Expos'd to Cold and stormy Nights?
Adieu, Companion, I'll away;
It may not here be safe, to stay:
I own, you are a happy Dove,
While you your gilded Cage can love;
Yet give me still my musty Grains
On barren Hills, and fallow Plains,
With Danger, Cold, and storms of Wind;
But let my Flight be unconfin'd.
