'Twas then I beat my Breaft, and tore my Hair,
With all the Symptoms of a deep Despair.
I fill'd the Air with my distracted Cries,
And Ida's Mount refounded with the Noife.
Thence with dire Imprecations I remov'd
Unto thofe confcious Caves, where once we lov'd.
Hear me, ye Gods! May the curft Helen be
As wretched full as fhe has render'd me;
May the complain of false and broken Vows,
And pine, like me, for a regardless Spcufe.
Now they do Charm, who from their Husbands fly,
And the wide Ocean plow, to follow thee;
When a poor Shepherd, a fmall Flock you fed,
Then I, and only I, vouchfaf'd my Bed.
Nor think I fue to be in Courts ador'd,
And own'd the Daughter of all Afia's Lord;
Tho' your great Parents need not be asham'd
When 'mongst their many Children I am nam'd.
A Scepter would not ill become this Hand,
So much I wish and merit to command.
Defpife me not, because with you I lay,
And pafs'd, on new-fall'n Leaves, the well fpent Day;
For thy Enone's worthy of a Bed,
Not with green Leaves but gaudy Purple spread.
Safe you may fleep and harmless in my Arms,
Your Joys uninterrupted with Alarms;
But with my Rival thus you must not live,
For Greece in Arms demands the Fugitive;
Ruin is all the Dow'ry fhe can give.
Afk your grave Friends, with piercing Wisdom fraught,
Whom many Years have much Experience taught,
Aik Sage Antenor, and your aged Sire,
If she's to be reftor'd whom they require.
Bafe Man! your Country for her fake deftroy'd,
Shame's on your part, and Juftice on their fide.
Or can you think that she will conftant prove,
Who was so easily 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 the 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
Poffeffed of a firm and loyal Heart!
A Faith like hers thou hast beheld in me,
And Hector's Virtue should have shin'd in thee;
But thou art lighter than the faplefs Leaf,
Of which the Autumn Blafts the Trees bereave;
Or than the Stalks of the well-ripen'd Wheat,
Made the Winds sport by the Sun's parching Heat.
Well I remember what your Sister said,
When the strange God poffefs'd the furious Maid;
OEnone, cease to plow up fruitless Lands,
And fow thy Seed upon the barren Sands.
The Grecian Heifer comes, who reaps thy Foys,
The Bane of Troy, and Priam's ancient Houfe.
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 false Inconstant filed;
But he untouch'd restor❜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 prest,
And that curft Face for which I was difgrac'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 ufe 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 case 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 bestow:
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 Partner of my foftest Fires;
To thee I write, mine, whilft a Shepherd's Swain,
But now a Prince, that Title you disdain.
Oh fatal Pomp, that cou'd fo foon divide
What Love, and all our Vows fo firmly ty'd!
What God, our Loves industrious to prevent,
Curft thee with Pow'r, and ruin'd my Content?
Greatness, which does at beft but ill agree
With Love, such distance sets 'twixt thee and me.
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