I fear (I know not why) that she may be
Than to her other Maids, more harsh to me:
But you are bound to guard your Conquer'd Slave,
And to maintain the Articles you gave:
Yet fhould you yield to her imperious Sway,
Do what you will, but turn me not away.
But why should you depart? the King repents;
The Grecian Army wants you in their Tents:
You conquer all, conquer your
Paffion too;
Or elfe, with Hector, you will Greece undo.
Take Arms (Eacides) but firft take me,
Your jufter Rage let routed Trojans fee.
For me begun, for me your Anger end;
The Fault I caus'd, let me have Pow'r to mend.
In this to me you may with Honour yield,
Rul'd by his Wife, Oenides took the Field.
His Mother's facred Curfes him difarm'd,
Rul'd by his Wife's more pow'rful Spells uncharm'd,
His Armour once put off, he buckles on,
And fights and conquers for his Calidon:
That happy Wife prevail'd, why should not I:
But you that Title, and my Pow'r deny :
Title, and Pow'r, and all ambitious Strife
Of being call'd your Miftrefs, or your Wife,
I quietly lay down; but I must have
This Claim allow'd, to be your faithful Slave.
I by thofe dread, ill-cover'd Ashes swear,
(Alas their Tomb Lyrnesian Ruins are!)
Of my dead Spouse, and by each facred Ghoft
Of my three Brothers honourably loft,
Who for, and with their Country bravely fell;
By all that's awful both in Heav'n and Hell;
And laft of all, by thine own Head and mine,
Whom Love, tho' parted now, did fometimes join,
That I preferve my Faith entire and chafte,
That I no foreign Love, or Pleasure taste :
That no Afperfion can my Honour touch;
O! that Achilles too could fay as much!
Some think he mourns for me; But others fay,
In Love's foft Joys he melts his Hours
away;
That fome new Mistress with Circean Charms
Has lockt him up in her lafcivious Arms,
And fo transform'd from what he was before,
That he will fight for Greece or me no more.
The Trumpet now to the foft Lute muft yield:
To Midnight Revels, Marches in the Field.
He whom of late Greece, as her Mars, ador'd;
He, on whofe maffy Spear, and glitt'ring Sword
The Fates, and Death did wait, that mighty Man
Now wields a Busk, and brandishes a Fan.
Avert it Heav'n! can he be only brave
To waste my Country, not his own to fave?
And when his Arms my Family mow'd down,
Loft he his Sting, and fo became a Drone?
Ah! cure thefe Fears; and let me have the Pride
To fee your Jav'lin fixt in Hector's Side.
O! that the Grecians would send me to try,
If I could make your stubborn Heart comply:
Few Words I'd use, all should be Sighs, and Tears,
And Looks, and Kiffes, mixt with Hopes and Fears;
My Love like Light'ning thro' my Eyes should fly,
And thaw the Ice, which round your Heart does lie:
Sometimes my Arms about your Neck I'd throw ;
And then embrace your Knees, and humbly bow:
There is more Eloquence in Tears, and Kiffes,
Than in the fmooth Harangues of fly Ulysses:
That noify Rhetorick of a twanging Tongue,
Serves but to lug the heavy Crowd along:
But Souls with Souls fpeak only by the Eye,
And at thofe Windows one another spy:
your Mother Sea rais'd with the Wind
More fierce, I would compofe your ftormy Mind;
And my Love fhining on my Tears that flow,
Should make a Rain-Bow, and fair Weather show.
So dreams my Love, Ah! come, that I may try,
If I can turn my Dream to Prophecy.
So may your Pyrrhus live to equalize
His Grandfire's Years, his Father's Victories.
Let me no longer pin'd in Abfence lie;
Rather than live without you, let me die :
My Heart's already cold, and Death does fpread
His livid Palenefs o'er my lively Red.
My Life hangs only on the flender Hope,
That your reviving Love your Rage will stop.
If that should fail, let me not linger on,
But let that Sword (to mine, ah! too well known)
Me to my Brothers, and my Husband fend;
Your Hand began, your Hand the Work muft end.
But why fuch Cruelty? Come then, and fave
Afflicted Greece, and me your humble Slave.
How much more decently might you employ
Your ill-spent Rage against Neptunian Troy!
Thun furl your Sails, once more your Anchors caft:
Leave not your Country, nor your Honour blast.
But go or ftay; with you I ought to move,
Made yours by Right of War, and Right of Love.
Dejanira having heard that Hercules was fallen in Love with Jöle, Daughter of the King of Oechalia, whom he had lately Vanquish'd and Slain, and at the fame time that he was dying by a poifon'd Shirt she had fent him, to recover, as she had been told it would, his loft Affection; between Jealoufy and Rage for the first, and Grief and Despair for the latter, writes him the following Epifle.
N your late Triumphs I rejoice, and share
Your new Renown, Oechalia's finifh'd War.
But, fhould the Victor to the Vanquish'd yield!
Curft be the Day that you the Town compell'd.
Thro' Greece the Rumour flies, nor fafter Fame
Proclaims your Conqueft, then fhe spreads your Shame.
By your vile Bonds your former Life's defil'd,
And all the Luftre of your Labour foil'd:
Thofe Labours you with matchless Might o'ercame,
And Juno's Hate, and rais'd a Godlike Name.
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