'Tis true, fome other Nymph may gain That Heart which merits your Disdain, But fecond Love has ftill allay,

The Joys grow aged, and decay.

Then blame me not for lofing more

Than Love and Beauty can restore:
And let this truth thy comfort prove,
I wou'd, but can no longer Love.

THE

THE

DIVIDEDHEART.

A

By the fame Author....

H! Celia, that I were but fure,

Thy Love, like mine,cou'd ftill endure;

That Time and Absence, which destroy

The Cares of Lovers, and their Joy,
Cou'd never rob me of that part

Which you have giv'n me of your Heart;

Others unenvy'd might poffefs

Whole Hearts, and boast that Happiness.

'Twas Nobler Fortune to divide

The Roman Empire in her Pride,

Than on fome low and barb'rous Throne,
Obfcurely plac'd to rule alone.

Love only from thy Heart exacts

The feveral Debts thy Face contra&s,
And by that new and juster way,

Secures thy Empire and his fway;
Fav'ring but one he might compel
The hopeless Lover to rebel.

But shou'd he other Hearts thus fhare, That in the whole fo worthlefs are,

Shou'd into feveral Squadrons draw

That ftrength, which kept entire cou'd awe,
Men would his scatter'd Powers deride,
And conqu'ring Him thofe spoils divide.

ΤΟ

To Mr. J. N. on his Tranflations out of

W

French and Italian.

By the fame Author.

Hile others Toil, our Country to fupply With what we need only for Luxury, Spices, and Silk, in the rich Eaft provide, To glut our Avarice, and feed our Pride. You Foreign Learning profperously tranfmit, To raise our Virtue, and provoke our Wit. Such brave Designs your Gen'rous Soul inflame To be a bold Adventurer for Fame;

How much oblig'd are Italy and France,

While with your Voice their Musick you advance?

Your growing Fame with Envy can oppose, Who fing with no lefs Art than they Compofe;

In

In these Attempts, so few have had fucccess,
Their Beauties fuffer in our English Dress:
By Artless Hands, fpoil'd of their Native Ayr,
They feldom pafs from moderately fair:

As if you meant these Injuries to Atone,

You give them Charms more Conqu’ring than their own.

Not like the dull laborious Flatterer,

With fecret Art thofe Graces you confer.
The skilful Painters, with flight ftroaks impart,
That fubtil Beauty which affects the Heart.
There are, who publickly profess they hate
Translations, and yet all they Write, Tranflate:
So proud, they scorn to drive a Lawful Trade,
Yet by their Wants, are shameless Pirates made:
These you incenfe, while you their Thefts reveal,
Or else prevent in what they meant to steal
From all befides; you are fecure of praise,
But you so high our Expectation raise,

A