Wit that on ill a fpecious luftre throws,
And in falfe colours ev'ry object shows,
That gilds the wrong, depreciating the right,
And hurts the judgment, while it feasts the fight:
So in a prism to the deluded eye

Each pictur'd trifle takes a rainbow dye,

With borrow'd charms the fhining profpect glows,
And truth revers'd the faithless mirror shows,
Inverted scenes in bright confufion lie,
The lawns impending o'er the nether sky;
No juft, no real images we meet,
But all the gaudy vision is deceit.

Oft I revolve in this distracted mind

Each word, each look, that spoke my charmer kind;
But oh! how dear their memory I pay !

What pleasures paft can prefent cares allay?
Of all I love for ever difpoffefs'd;

Ah! what avails to think I once was blefs'd?
Hard difpofition of unequal fate!

Mix'd are our joys, and tranfient are their date;
Nor can reflection bring them back again,
Yet brings an after-sting to ev'ry pain.

Thy fatal letters, oh immoral youth,
Those perjur'd pledges of fictitious truth,
Dear as they were no fecond joy afford,
My cred'lous heart once leap'd at ev'ry word,
My glowing bofom throbb'd with thick-heav'd fighs,
And floods of rapture gufh'd into my eyes:

When now repeated (for thy theft was vain,
Each treafur'd fyllable my thoughts retain)
Far other paffions rule, and diff'rent care,
My joys and grief, my transports and despair.
Why doft thou mock the ties of constant love?

But half its joys the faithless ever prove,

They only tafte the pleasures they receive,

When fure the nobleft is in those we give.
Acceptance is the heav'n which mortals know,
But 'tis the blifs of angels to bestow.

Oh! emulate, my love, that task divine,
Be thou that angel, and that heav'n be mine.
Yet, yet relent, yet intercept my fate:
Alas! I rave, and fue for new deceit.
As foon the dead shall from the grave return,
As love extinguish'd with new ardor burn.
Oh! that I dar'd to act a Roman part,
And ftab thy image in this faithful heart,
Where riveted for life fecure you reign,
A cruel inmate, author of my pain:
But coward-like irrefolute I wait

Time's tardy aid, nor dare to rush on fate;
Perhaps may linger on life's latest stage,
Survive thy cruelties, and fall by age:

No-grief shall fwell my fails, and speed me o'er
(Despair my pilot) to that quiet fhore

Where I can truft, and thou betray no more,

Might I but once again behold thy charms,
Might I but breathe my last in those dear arms,
On that lov'd face but fix my closing eye,
Permitted where I might not live to die,
My foften'd fate I wou'd accuse no more;
But fate has no fuch happiness in store.

"Tis past, 'tis done-what gleam of hope behind,
When I can ne'er be false, nor thou be kind?

Why then this care ?—'tis weak-'tis vain-farewel-
At that last word what agonies I feel!
I faint-I die-remember I was true-
Tis all I ask-eternally-adieu!-

FLORA

FLORA to POMPEY.

By the Same.

Pompey, when he was very young, fell in love with Flora, a Roman courtezan, who was fo very beautiful that the Romans had her pointed to adorn the temple of Caftor and Pollux. Geminius (Pompey's friend) afterwards fell in love with her too; but fe, prepoffeffed with a paffion for Pompey, would not listen to Geminius. Pompey, in compaffion to his friend, yielded him his miftrefs, which Flora took fo much to heart, that she fell dangerously ill upon it; and in that fickness is supposed to write the following letter to Pompey.

E

RE death these clofing eyes for ever shade,

(That death thy cruelties have welcome made)
Receive, thou yet lov'd man! this one adieu,
This laft farewel to happiness and you.

My eyes o'erflow with tears, my trembling hand
Can scarce the letters form, or pen command:
The dancing paper swims before my fight,
And scarce myself can read the words I write.
Think you behold me in this loft estate,

And think yourself the author of my fate:
How vaft the change! your Flora's now become
The gen'ral pity, not the boast of Rome.
This form, a pattern to the sculptor's art,

This face, the idol once of Pompey's heart,

(Whofe

(Whose pictur'd beauties Rome thought fit to place
The facred temples of her gods to grace).

Are charming now no more; the bloom is fled,
The lillies languid, and the roses dead.
Soon fhall fome hand the glorious work deface,
Where Grecian pencils tell what Flora was:
No longer my refemblance they impart,

They loft their likeness, when I lost thy heart.

Oh! that those hours could take their turn again, When Pompey, lab'ring with a jealous pain, His Flora thus befpoke: "Say, my dear love! "Shall all these rivals unsuccessful prove? "In vain, for ever, fhall the Roman youth "Envy my happiness, and tempt thy truth? "Shall neither tears nor pray'rs thy pity move? "Ah! give not pity, 'tis akin to love. "Would Flora were not fair in such excess, "That I might fear, tho' not adore her less." Fool that I was, I fought to ease that grief, Nor knew indiff'rence follow'd the relief: Experience taught the cruel truth too late, I never dreaded, till I found my fate. 'Twas mine to ask if Pompey's felf could hear, Unmov'd, his rivals unsuccessful pray'r; To make thee swear he'd not thy pity move; Alas! fuch pity is no kin to love.

'Twas thou thyfelf (ungrateful as thou art!) Bade me unbend the rigour of my heart:

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