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Dimples, where love conceal'd in ambush lay,
To aim his arrows at the deftin'd prey;
And lips that promis'd in each balmy kifs
Luxurious harveft of ambrofial blifs.
Mufing the fat, and watch'd each rifing grace
That thed its luftre o'er her heav'nly face,
Till lab'ring grief her anxious filence broke,
And fighing thus the lovely mourner spoke :
Were charms like these by erring nature meant
For fober folitude and calm content?
Muft eyes fo bright be doom'd to waste their fires
On hungry parfons and unfeeling fquires;
Heav'n whofe decrees (if true what priests have taught)
Are fram'd by juftice and with wisdom fraught,
Sure ne'er created fuch a form as this
For the dull purpose of domestic bliss.
Ah! no, thefe eyes were giv'n in courts to shine;
Shall impious man then thwart the wife design?
A fhort-liv'd fway of fome few years at moft
Is all, alas! the brightest belle can boast
Ere yet the hand of all-devouring time
Lay wafte her graces, and deftroy her prime :
By flow degrees fhe feels her pow'r decay,
beauties bear the palm away.
Whilft envious fate thus haftens to destroy
The fleeting period of all female joy,
Shall barb'rous husbands (whofe tyrannic rage
Nor pray'rs can mitigate, nor tears affuage)
E'en in thofe years while youth and beauty bloom,
To exile half her precious moments doom?
She goes like fome neglected flow'r to fade,
And wafte her sweetness in the lonely fhade,
Till winter (fo the pitying gods decree)
Returning fets th' impatient captive free:
Then fwift emerging from the dull retreat,
To town fhe flies, admiring crowds to meet :
Her happy hours glide on from morn to night,
One ceafelefs round of exquifite delight:
Balls, op'ras, concerts, Almacks, and Soho,
By turns attended, various joys bestow:
E'en crowded routs where dullness ever dwells,
Can yield delight to fashionable belles.
Old maids and prudes each night, to feed their fpleen,
There, feeking whom they may devour, are feen,
And, ftill repining that they must be chafte,
Would mar thofe pleafures they're forbid to tafte;
With envious eye the brilliant nymph they view,
Whilft eager crowds where'er fhe moves purfue.
If to the play-houfe fhe by chance repair,
(Not oft frequented by the well bred fair)
When through the house a folemn filence reigns,
Each bofom feeling what the actor feigns,
E'en in the midst of fome affecting part,
That wakes each soft emotion of the heart,
The doors fly open whilft the pit beneath
Their difcontent in fullen murmurs breathe:
Forward fhe fteps with graceful air, and spreads
A blaze of beauty o'er their wond'ring heads:
Pit, boxes, gall'ries, all at once concur,
Forget the play, and fix their eyes on her.
Scarce to the flage fhe turns her high-plum'd head,
Or feems to mark one fyllable that's faid;
But careless fits, and on her arm reclin'd
Hears civil speeches from the beaux behind;
Or gently liftens while fome well-drefs'd youth
In whifper'd accents vows eternal truth.
Obedient fill to pleafure's fprightly call
She quits the play, and feeks the livelier ball:
Each white glov'd beau with hafte his fuit prefers,
Prefents his hand, and humbly begs for hers.
Well pleas'd the hears the fuppliant crowds intreat,
And feels the triumph of her charms complete.
Should fome bleft youth be to the reft prefer'd,
Whofe vows in private are with favour heard,
As through the dance with graceful eafe fhe moves,
Their meeting hands exprefs their confcious loves,
Malicious eyes the lover's looks reftrain,
And cold difcretion foals his lips in vain;
The faithful hand can unobferv'd impart
The fecret feelings of a tender heart:
And oh what bliss, when each alike is pleas'd!
The hand that fqueezes, and the hand that's fqueez'd,
But whither, whither does my fancy roam;
Ah! let me call the idle wand'rer home..
Already Phebus, with unwelcome ray,
Has chas'd, alas! the winter's fogs away;
Through the fad town, at each deferted door,
Lefs frequent now the footman's thunders roar,
And waggon's loading in the dufty street,
Forbode the horrors of a long retreat.
Ye fifter fuff'rers, who muft foon or late
All fhare my forrows, and partake my fate,
Who, when condemn'd thefe bleft abodes to quit,
Like me may weep, but muft like me submit,
When overcome by man's fuperior force,
Revenge is ftill the injured fair's resource:
Revenge at leaft may make our fuff'rings lefs,
A hufband's anguifh fooths a wife's diftrefs,
When far from town, in fome fequefter'd fpot,
You mourn the hardship of our sex's lot,
Ill humour, vapours, fullennefs and fpleen,
May add fresh horrors to the gloomy fcene,
And make the tyrants who contrive your fate
Partake the mifery themselves create.
If, prefs'd by cares, they need a friend's relief,
Be all your ftudy to augment their grief;
If pleas'd or gay, your utmoft arts employ
To fink their fpirits and difpel their joy;
Oppofe their projects, cross their fav'rite views,
Their wishes frultrate, their requefts refufe;
And make them feel that difcontented wives
prove the torment of their husband's lives.
By the Right Hon. the Earl of CARLISLE.
OET of nature, thou whofe boundless art
Defcrib'd each power that rules the throbbing
Feign'd all that love, that glory e'er infpir'd,
That warm'd a Romeo, or a Percy fir'd,
In love's fweet caufe be now thy magic try'd,
And charm with future fcenes my deftin'd bride!
Lo! at thy call, fiends crofs the blasted heath,
And rifing spectres daunt the pale Macbeth,
Who doom'd by guilt his anxious eye to caft
O'er dim futurity's unravell'd waste,
On alien brows beheld his wrested crown,
Deplor'd the past, and saw the future frown!
Oh, once again thefe wond'rous fpells prepare,
With milder vifions point th' embodied air!
No more in caves let fires infernal glow,
Nor call thy phantoms from the world below.
In Laura's fight let Hymen's altar blaze,
Let Cupid's torch diffufe its brightest rays,
Let fmiling hours in feftive circles dance,
And white-rob'd priefts to meet our fteps advance ;
In diftant view be love's dear pledges fhown,
And all the long fucceffion live our own!
So, round the favour'd tomb, thy hallow'd urn, May ev'ry mufe her veftal incenfe burn!
Still thofe laureat brows their honours wear,
Secure from critics, envy, and Voltaire !
Still on the ftage thou reard'st may Garrick ftand,
For Shakespeare's lyre obeys no other hand!
Still fleep thy page near Laura's pillow plac'd,
And future comments grace thee like the laft!