But when thou Dy't, thy Treasure dies, อง And thou canst leave no Legacies. What Madness is it then to fpare, When we want power to make an Heir? Of thy great Beauty; and fince Fate To Love, and Youth, is fo fevere, No more than Arms or Arts or Wit. G 2 And even, of them, I'd have thee fly T THE ICTURE. In Imitation of ACREON'S BATHILLUS. By the Right Honourable the ARQUIS of NORMANEY. Hou Flatterer of all the Fair, me fuch a Shape, and Face, our Flatt'ry would difgrace. not that she would appear, well for you she is not here; e can you with safety see er Charms defcrib'd by me, Who, alas, have found too well; What a power does in them dwell; I, alas, have felt the Blow Mourn, as loft, my former Days, That did not fing of Celia's praife; #OAM With her tempting Eyes begin, Eyes that might draw Angels in To a fecond fweeter fin. Oh, those wanton rowling Eyes! At each glance a Lover dies: Make them bright, yet make them willing, Next, draw her Forhead, then her Nose, And Lips juft opening, which disclose Teeth Teeth fo white, and Breath fo fweet, So much Beauty, so much Wit, To our very Soul they ftrike, All our Senfes pleas'd alike; But fo pure a white and red Never never can be faid; What are words in fuch a cafe? ! What is paint to fuch a Face? How should either Art avail us? Fancy here it felf will fail us. Next to her, the Matchless She, We fhall wonder most at Thee. |