University of Virginia Library

Imitated from the 12th Elegy of the Second Book of Propertius.

Gods! what a Night was that when rapt I lay
In all the furious Transports of my Joy!
And O my Bed! how happy didst thou prove,
Shook with Convulsions of Tumultuous Love:
And as the Taper's pale Fires trembling play'd,
Heav'ns! how we kiss'd! what tender Things we said!
But what soft Combats, what a wanton Fight
Began, when kindly that withdrew its Light!
Now, with her swelling panting Breasts all bare,
She faintly struggles to maintain the War:
Fir'd with a Touch, soft Flames dissolve each Part,
And glide thro' all the Veins into my Heart.
Then, as I slept, fatigu'd with am'rous Play,
She murm'ring Charm'd the drowsy God away.
“And can'st thou now (quoth She) a Truant prove?
“False to my Passion! Traytor to my Love!
How variously our Clasping Arms now twine!
And in what Wreaths our Curling Bodies join!
My Soul then hov'ring o're her Lips of Bliss,
I seal a Long—an Everlasting Kiss.
While Youth and Beauty jointly here conspire
To give at once, and favour our Desire,
Let pleasing Objects ev'ry Sense surprize,
And Draughts of Love o'recharge our drunken Eyes;
First Age, then Death's Eternal Night comes on,
The Objects vanish, and our Joys are gone.
O may we thus unite, cemented fast
As long as Life, and Love it self will last!
Outrageous Love admits no Term, or Bound,
But runs the Circle of an endless Round;
On Billows of fierce Pleasures wou'd be toss't,
Wander in Bliss, and be for ever lost.
Sooner the Sun shall his old Road forsake,
And Rivers to their Fountains Head run back;
The Earth shall cease her Vital Fruits to bear,
And disallow the Promise of the Year;
Fish sooner leave the Floods, the Floods the Sea,
Than I, Dear Cynthia, will depart from thee.
Let's not consume the Time in Jars and Strife,
But freely taste the transient Joys of Life:
Bless me but with a Kiss, I more receive
Than all the Boundless Wealth the World can give.
As sickly Flow'rs their tarnish'd Colours shed
Into our Wine from Chaplets round our Head,
Our Wine that grows with Standing pall'd and dead;
So, like the Flow'rs, and sparkling Wine, awhile
Our Youth does in the Bloom of Beauty smile,
Then fades:—and tho' our flatt'ring Joys seem great,
Yet with To-morrow's Sun they all may set.