Go, frantick Poet, with Delusions fed.
Think Laurels guard your confecrated Head,
Now the fweet Master of your Art is dead.
What can we hope ? fince that a narrow Span
Can measure the Remains of thee, Great Man.
The bold, rafh Flame that durft approach fo nigh,
And fee Tibullus, and not trembling die,
Durft feize on Temples, and their Gods defy.
Fair Venus (fair ev'n in fuch Sorrows) ftands,
Clofing her heavy Eyes with trembling Hands,
Anon, in vain, officiously fhe tries
To quench the Flame with Rivers from her Eyes.
His Mother weeping doth his Eye-lids clofe, And on his Urn Tears, her last Gift, bestows. His Sifter too, with Hair difhevel'd, bears Part of her Mother's Nature, and her Tears.
With thofe, two Fair, two mournful Rivals come,
And add a greater Triumph to his Tomb :
Both hug his Urn, both his lov'd Ashes kifs,
And both contend which reap'd the greater Blifs.
Thus Delia poke (when Sighs no more could last)
Renewing by Remembrance Pleasures past ;
"When Youth with Vigour did for Joy combine,
"I was Tibullus' Life, Tibullus mine:
"I entertain'd his hot, his first Defire,
"And kept alive, till Age, his active Fire.
To her then Nemefis when (Groans gave leave)
"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve:
Spare your vain Tears, Tibullus! Heart was mine, "About my Neck his dying Arms did twine; "I fnatch'd his Soul, which true to me did prove; "Age ended yours, Death only flop'd my Love.
If any poor Remains furvive the Flames,
Except thin Shadows, and more empty Names;
Free in Elyfium shall Tibullus rove,
Nor fear a fecond Death fhould cross his Love.
There fhall Catullus, crown'd with Bays, impart
To his far dearer Friend his open Heart.
There Gallus (if Fame's Hundred Tongues all lie)
Shall, free from Cenfure, no more rafhly die.
Such fhall our Poet's blefs'd Companions be,
And in their Deaths, as in their Lives agree.
But thou, rich Urn, obey my ftri&t Commands,
Guard thy great Charge from Sacrilegious Hands.
Thou, Earth, Tibullus' Ashes gently use,
And be as foft and easy as his Muse.
OW Ceres' Feaft is come, the Trees are blown,
And my. Corinna now muft lie alone.
And why, good Ceres, muft thy Feast destroy
Man's chief Delight, and why disturb his Joy!
The World efteems you bountiful, and good,,
You led us from the Field, and from the Wood,
And gave us fruitful Corn, and wholefome Food.
'Till then poor wretched Man on Acorns fed;
Oaks gave him Meat, and flow'ry Fields a Bed.
First Ceres made our Wheat and Barley grow,
And taught us how to Plow, and how to Mow:
Who then can think that the defigns to prove
Our Piety, by coldness in our Love?
Or make poor Lovers figh, lament, and groan,
Or charge her Votaries to lie alone?
For Ceres, tho' fhe loves the fruitful Fields,
Yet fometimes feels the force of Love, and yields:
This Crete can witnefs, (Crete not always lies,)
Crete that nurs'd Jove, and heard his Infant Cries,
There he was fuckled that now rules the Skies.
That Jove his Education there receiv'd
Will raise her Fame, and make her be believ'd:
Nay the her felf will never ftrive to hide
Her Love, 'tis too well known to be deny'd:
She faw young Jafius in the Cretan Grove
Purfue the Deer, fhe faw, and fell in Love.
She then perceiv'd when first she felt the Fire,
On this Side Modefty, on that Defire;
Defire prevail'd, and then the Field grew dry,
The Farmer loft his Crop, and knew not why;
When he had toild, manur'd his Grounds, and plow'd,
Harrow'd his Fields, and broke his Clods and fow'd,
No Corn appear'd, none to reward his Pain,
His Labour and his Wishes were in vain.
For Ceres wand'red in the Woods and Groves,
And often heard and often told her Loves:
Then Crete alone a fruitful Summer knew,
Where-e'er the Goddefs came, a Harveft grew.
Ida was gray with Corn, the furious Boar
Grew Fat with Wheat, and wonder'd at the Store:
The Cretans wish'd, that fuch all Years would prove,
They with'd that Ceres would be long in Love.
Well then, fince then 'twas hard for you to lie
All Night alone, why at your Feast must I?
Why must I mourn, when you rejoice to know
Your Daughter fafe, and Queen of all below?
'Tis Holy-day, and calls for Wine and Loves;
Come let's the height of Mirth and Humour prove,
These Gifts will please our Master Pow'rs above.
To his Miftrefs, that he cannot help Loving her.
O much I've fuffer'd, and fo long, no more
I'll bear the Wrongs, which I have born before.
Begone, vile Cupid, I'll no more endure.
Thy flavish Labours, and Fatigues impure;
From hence, I'll put an End to all the Pains
Thou'it coft me, and from hence shake off thy Chains.
I hate the Liv'ry, I with Pleasure wore,
And blush at Bonds, which once with Pride I bore:
But this, methinks, fhould have been done before.
To leave my wicked Courfes I begin,
As Years deprive me of the Guft of Sin.
On Cupid's Neck I fhould have trod when young,
And vanquish'd him, when my Defires were ftrong,
In that there had been Virtue; now there's none,
The World will fay fo; let the World say on.
Much Oppofition I fhall meet; perhaps,
The Lewd will laugh, and threaten a Relapse:
To bear Reproaches I must be prepar'd,
Eafy's the End, when the Beginning's hard;
Content, let me the prefent Pain endure,
For the fharp Med'cine is the Patient's Cure;
How oft have you expos'd me to the Cold,
While in your Arms you did my Rival hold?
How like a Slave have I been forc'd to wait
All Weathers, and how oft have watch'd the Gate?
As if your Houfe was trufted to my Care,
And I, your Centinel, did Duty there.
Oft have I seen your fated Lover come
With Looks, as if he long'd to be at Home.
But what most grated on my jealous Mind,
Was that he there the waiting Fool fhould find.
That aggravated moft the cruel Curfe ;
I would not wish my greatest Foe a worse.
How oft have I attended you Abroad,
Or in the City, Cirque, or on the Road?
They took me for your Hufband by my Care,
Or that your Guardian, or your Slave, I were.
Iby the People's Glances, and your own,
Obfery'd you were acquainted with the Town;
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