Afk Sage Antenor, and your aged Sire,
If she's to be restor'd whom they require.
Bafe Man! your Country for her fake destroy'd,
Shame's on your part, and Juftice on their fide.
Or can you think that she will constant prove,
Who was fo eafily entic'd to love?
When once debauch'd, our Sex for ever burn
In lawless Fire; Virtue knows no Return;
Dishonour never gives a second Blow;
And once a Whore fhe will be ever fo.
But her firm Love that Scruple has remov'd;
Vain Man! ev'n thus Atrides once fhe lov'd.
Alone he lies, poor cred❜lous Cuckold, now!
And does deplore what you ere while must do.
Fool that he was to think she could be true!
Happy Andromache! who justly art
Possessed of a firm and loyal Heart!
A Faith like hers thou haft beheld in me,
And Hector's Virtue should have shin'd in thee;
But thou art lighter than the fapless Leaf,
Of which the Autumn Blafts the Trees bereave;
Or than the Stalks of the well-ripen'd Wheat,
Made the Winds fport by the Sun's parching Heat.
Well I remember what your Sister said,
When the strange God poffefs'd the furious Maid;
OEnone, ceafe to plow up fruitless Lands,
And fow thy Seed upon the barren Sands.
The Grecian Heifer comes, who reaps thy Joys,
The Bane of Troy, and Priam's ancient House.
She comes! forbid it, Heav'n: And in the Deep,
Now, now, ye Gods, fink down the guilty Ship;
Now is the time to plunge it in the Flood,
It brings Destruction, and is fraught with Blood.
She faid: Her People fnatch'd her from my View,
As thro' the Woods full of the God fhe flew.
Too true she spoke! my Joys that Heifer prove,
Does in my Groves and Flow'ry Meadows move,
And all the pleasant Paftures of my Love.
Fair tho' fhe be, your Helen is a Whore,
Whom each new Face draws from her Native Shore.
With Thefeus thus the falfe Inconstant fled;
But he untouch'd reftor'd the spotless Maid.
Ah who can Faith to the forg'd Story yield?
His Veins with youthful Blood and Vigour fill'd,
A Lover too! could he his Joys forbear?
And in Poffeffion of his Heav'n despair?
Mifcall not thus her ready Flight a Rape,
Her wicked felf contriv'd the wish'd Escape.
But I, falfe as you are, have kept my Vows,
Tho' your Example would my Crimes excufe.
Long time I liv'd a Tenant of the Groves,
The common Object of the Satyrs Loves;
Me, Faunus too, who o'er the Mountains fled,
Purfu'd, with Leafy Chaplets on his Head;
And Phabus, who, but with much Force, obtain'd
That Blifs for which the rest in vain complain'd.
I tore my Hair, while my foft Limbs he preft,
And that curft Face for which I was disgrac'd.
No fordid Recompence of Wealth I fought;
That Creature's mean whofe Love is to be bought;
But me the grateful God with Knowledge ftor'd,
And the fame Gifts for which himself's ador'd.
For no one Plant the fertile Earth does yield,
But in its Virtues I am amply skill'd.
Wretch! of what use does thy vain Knowledge prove?
No Drug, alas! can cure the Wounds of Love.
Not Phabus' felf, the Author of our Art,
Could in this cafe guard his Immortal Heart :
Nought or from Earth, or Heav'n can cure my Wound,
In thee alone muft my Relief be found:
My Paris can, and he muft Pity show,
To her who merits all he can beftow:
For I am yours, with you of old did pass,
In childish Innocence, my Infant Days;
And I beseech you, Gods, to fix
my Doom,
And give that Bleffing to the time to come.
So in his Arms, to whom my Youth I lent,
Shall the Remains of my bleft Life be spent.
O thee, dear Paris, Lord of my Defires,
Once tender
Once tender Partner of my fofteft Fires;
To thee I write, mine, whilft a Shepherd's Swain,
But now a Prince, that Title you
difdain.
Oh fatal Pomp, that cou'd fo foon divide
What Love, and all our Vows fo firmly ty'd!
What God, our Loves induftrious to prevent,
Curft thee with Pow'r, and ruin'd my Content ?
Greatnefs, which does at beft but ill agree
With Love, fuch distance fets 'twixt thee and me.
Whilft thou a Prince, and I a Shepherdess,
My raging Paffion can have no Redress.
Wou'd Heav'n, when first I saw thee, thou hadst been This Great, this Cruel Celebrated Thing,
That without Hope I might have gaz’d and bow'd,
And mix'd my Adoration with the Crowd;
Unwounded then I had escap'd those Eyes,
Thofe lovely Authors of my Miseries.
Not that lefs Charms their fatal Pow'r had drest,
But Fear and Awe my Love had then fuppreft:
My unambitious Heart no Flame had known,
But what Devotion pays to Gods alone.
I might have wonder'd, and have wifht that he,
Whom Heav'n fhould make me love, might look like thee.
More in a filly Nymph had been a Sin.
This had the height of my Prefumption been:
But thou a Flock didft feed on Ida's Plain,
And hadft no Title, but The Lovely Swain.
A Title! which more Virgin Hearts has won,
Than that of being own'd King Priam's Son.
Whilft me a harmless Neighb'ring Cottager
You faw, and did above the reft prefer.
You faw! and at firft fight you lov'd me too,
Nor cou'd I hide the Wounds receiv'd from you.
Me all the Village Herdsmen ftrove to gain,
For me the Shepherds figh'd and fu'd in vain,
Thon hadft my Heart, and they my cold Difdain.
Not all their Offerings, Garlands, and Firft-born
Of their lov'd Ewes, cou'd bribe my native Scorn.
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